


Ghastly Murders in the East End

by dippkip



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: But callously disregarded when it was inconvenient, Gore, Historical accuracy maintained where possible, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-14 17:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 38,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11213103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dippkip/pseuds/dippkip
Summary: London, 1888. A vicious killer known as Jack the Ripper has begun haunting the district of Whitechapel. In light of Scotland Yard’s inability to solve the case, intrepid reporter Clark Kent has made it his mission to track down this fiend and bring them to justice, though he may find himself more deeply involved in the affair than he bargained for.Meanwhile, Bruce Wayne, a seemingly irresponsible and eccentric duke, remains largely unconcerned about these atrocities. The Batman, however, has taken special interest, and spends his nights relentlessly hunting the new murderer at large. The paths of these men will converge as the body count begins to rise, and their investigations and growing affections will cement their bond, intertwining their fates with that of the most notorious murderer in all of England.





	1. Mary Ann Nichols

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally happening! The Superbat Big Bang is here, and this is my pride and joy created just for the occasion! It's the longest fic I've ever written and I'm really excited to finally share it with you all! The chapters will be switching between Clark and Bruce's points of view, and the timeline is a little scattered - each chapter doesn't necessarily happen on consecutive days, so make sure you check the date at the beginning of each chapter so you don't get lost. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, Kingy was my fabulous artist! Go look at the cool art they made for this story!! It's [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11298702)!! And as always, big thanks to my amazing beta [sugarlump](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarlump/pseuds/sugarlump).

_31 August_

Clark sighed and tapped his pen against his desk. His eyes were glued to the mess of paper clippings and scribbled notes scattered across its surface while the never-ending din of _The Daily Telegraph_ bullpen washed over him. Editors and reporters alike hollered for drafts and information across the large, low-ceilinged room, despite the fact that most of their desks were nearly touching. Clark had worked here long enough to learn how to tune out the sound when he needed to focus, but sometimes he appreciated the white noise – it was comforting after some of his less fruitful cases.

“You thinking of picking up the trail again?”

The teasing voice startled Clark out of his reverie, snapping his head up to meet Lois’ amused gaze. He flushed and dropped his pen back into an open drawer.

Lois was a dear friend, and Clark was grateful for the day she’d been hired on as a secretary (though it seemed most of the work she did involved making tea for her co-workers). She was a lovely young woman, with long, dark hair that she kept meticulously pinned up and a tongue as sharp as her mind. Clark had almost fancied her, once upon a time, but she deserved a husband who could match her ferocity – Clark knew he couldn’t be that man, so he easily contented himself with her friendship.

“No, nothing like that, Lo,” he assured her. “I just…nothing else has been _interesting_ since I dropped that investigation last year. Everything newsworthy in this city feels so predictable.”

Lois laughed as she took a fresh cup of tea from the tray she carried and set it on the corner of his desk. “I never thought I’d see the day when anyone dared to call this city ‘predictable.’”

Clark muttered his thanks as he lifted the brew to his lips. “I don’t mean it like that, but – ”

“I know, nothing will _ever_ hold your attention like the living legend of London, the infamous Batman,” she snickered, plucking an artist’s rendition out of the pile. The man swathed in black glared at her from the pamphlet, half of his face hidden by a dark cowl.

Clark fought back another blush, but he didn’t dignify her with an answer, instead opting to gather the documents from his desk and begin the meticulous process of putting it all back into the designated drawer. Lois knew exactly what he was doing, but humored him and helped, handing him clippings and interviews in the proper order as she continued talking about Steve’s latest mess in the copy room. By the time they finished, Perry White was strolling up to Clark’s desk with a telegram in hand.

“Kent, if you’re feeling so restless, go over to Whitechapel. A body was found in Buck’s Row this morning, and the inspector already agreed to give us an exclusive,” he groused, dropping the telegram on the desk.

Clark picked it up and read the brief, but foreboding message.

0340 HOURS FEMALE VICTIM FOUND IN BUCKS ROW STOP INSPECTOR JIM GORDON LEADING THE INVESTIGATION STOP SEND CORRESPONDANT ASAP STOP

He frowned, but gave White a sharp nod. “I’ll head down right now, sir,” he said, rising from his seat and grabbing his notebook and pencil.

“And don’t forget to _stick to_ _the facts_ , kid. Don’t need you out there chasin’ fairy tales again,” the editor reprimanded.

“Yessir,” Clark grumbled as he threw on his tweed coat and made his way to the back door, grabbing his umbrella from the stand there.

“Be careful Clark,” Lois warned him. “Whitechapel’s a rough neighborhood. Don’t get caught there once the sun’s down.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the time,” he promised before opening the door and stepping out into the crisp afternoon air.

Two long strides closed the distance to the road, where he hailed a cab and quickly climbed in, passing on his instructions to the cabbie before settling in for the ride.

 

* * *

 

Clark emerged from the hansom cab just down the road from the mortuary on Old Montague Street. He paid the driver and stepped back from the curb as the carriage took off, taking a deep breath to settle his nerves before walking up to the brick shack that housed the body. Two officers were standing just outside the door, talking in hushed, furtive tones that came to a stop when they spotted Clark. The younger of the two gave him a nod before taking his leave, prompting the older man to step forward and offer Clark a firm handshake.

“Inspector Gordon, Scotland Yard. You’re from _The Daily Telegraph_?”

“Yes. Clark Kent. It’s a pleasure.”

Gordon grunted in response. “Well, not a whole lot we can tell you right now. The few people who know this woman can only identify her as ‘Polly’ and told us she lived at the lodging house at number 18 Thrawl Street. We found a mark from the Lambeth Workhouse on her petticoats, so I just sent PC Bullock to fetch another resident. Hopefully they’ll be able to properly identify her.”

“I see,” Clark hummed, pencil flying over his notebook and quickly filling the pages. “Has a cause of death been determined?”

Gordon snorted. “I’ll say it has. Severe wound to the throat, and a gash along the abdomen that disemboweled her. Dr. Thompkins gave her a once-over at the scene and said she couldn’t have been dead more than half an hour.”

Clark shuddered, but faithfully jotted down the details. Gordon watched the reporter’s face lose color and smirked beneath his mustache.

“Would you like to see for yourself, Mr. Kent?”

“Oh no, that’s – ”

Before Clark could finish protesting, Bullock came back with a nervous-looking young woman in tow. Her clothing was modest – a dark green linsey frock with a grey knitted shawl draped across her shoulders. Wisps of dark brown hair escaped her tight bun and poked out from under her simple green bonnet. Gordon sighed as they approached, but the smirk lingered.

“Seems like you might see her if you like it or not,” he muttered. He gave the approaching woman a quick bow and cut to the chase. “May I ask for your name, miss?”

“M-my name’s Mary Ann Monk, sir,” she stammered, wringing her hands fretfully. “How can I be of service, sir?”

“A woman’s body was discovered early this morning, and we have reason to believe she lived at the Lambeth Workhouse,” Inspector Gordon explained. “We were hoping you could identify the body for us. Would you be up to it?”

Her eyes widened and her complexion paled slightly, but she took a deep breath and released it in a harsh gust, squarely meeting the inspector’s eyes.

“I believe I am, sir,” she declared, straightening her back and smoothing out her skirts.

Gordon gave her a brief smile before turning to the small brick structure and opening the door, gesturing for everyone to enter with a gruff, “This way. Mind your step.”

 PC Bullock entered first, closely followed by Miss Monk. Clark hesitated a moment, but he knew Perry would flay him if he missed this opportunity, so he took a fortifying breath of his own and stepped in just behind her.

The interior of the shack was cramped and sparsely decorated. There was a short counter built into the wall to the left, a few shelves on the far wall, and a covered table in the middle of the room where the body lay. In the time he’d been outside, Inspector Gordon had already pulled the sheet back and led Miss Monk closer to the table.

“Do you recognize this woman?” he asked gravely.

Mary Ann Monk paled further, but she bravely stepped closer and carefully inspected the corpse. After a minute or two of consideration, she slowly nodded and confirmed, “I do know her.”

“Are you positive?” the inspector asked. “If you have even the slightest bit of doubt – ”

“I’m quite sure, sir. That’s Mary Nichols. She lived at the workhouse with us until just this May,” she asserted.

“Did you know her very well?” Gordon inquired, stroking his ginger mustache thoughtfully.

“Um, not especially well,” she admitted, “but she seemed alright. She was a little too fond of her drink, but she was agreeable. Kept to herself most of the time, and often stayed out late.”

Gordon made a gesture to Bullock before turning back to the young lady and saying, “Thank you, Miss Monk. Police Constable Bullock here will escort you home.”

She nodded and followed the constable back outside. Clark didn’t really notice – he was trying his best to not lose his lunch.

Mary Ann Nichols made for a pretty horrific sight. Inspector Gordon hadn’t been exaggerating the severity of her wounds. Her clothing was completely soaked through with blood, and the entire room stank of decay.

“So, any word back from PC Montoya?” Clark asked, desperately trying to distract himself.

Gordon grunted. “None of the residents say they heard anything. Even the night watchman at the sewer works reported nothing unusual until someone came by and told him about the body that’d been found.”

“ _Nobody?_ ” Clark asked incredulously. “I thought the houses were right on top of each other there? How can a woman be murdered in cold blood and not make a sound?”

“Well, Dr. Thompkins said she was asphyxiated before any of the cuts were made, so it _is_ a possibility,” Gordon admitted, brows furrowing.

Clark frowned, but didn’t press the matter. “Well, thank you for your time, Inspector.”

Gordon simply nodded before opening the door and escorting the reporter back out, causing another shudder to trail down Clark’s spine. The fresh air was a relief after being cooped up in that room, but it seemed much colder than it had been before he’d gone in.

A howling gale was the only sound Clark heard as he left the mortuary, already contemplating his next destination.

 

* * *

 

Clark carefully shuffled through the crowd at Whitechapel Road and up the narrow passageways until he reached the gateway at the top of Buck's Row. The pavement had already been washed, so no evidence of the grisly episode remained, but that wasn’t what Clark was here for. He slowly spun in the street, taking in the surrounding businesses and residences – massive brick buildings nestled close together on either side of the road. Many had windows easily within eyeshot of this spot in the road, and all of them were most certainly within earshot.

So how could a woman be killed without a single soul privy to the occurrence?

Clark knocked at some of the doors, asking people what they had heard or seen, but didn’t gain any valuable insight. The wharf manager, his wife, the keeper of the board school – nobody could tell him a single thing.

Clark sighed, but he hadn’t expected much. He tucked his notebook into his coat and pulled it tightly around himself. The sun was starting to hang low in the sky, and he knew he should probably head home before it got any darker. He wouldn’t be able to see a thing out here once it did.

He began making his way back towards Whitechapel Road to get a taxi when he saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. He swiveled his head, but couldn’t see anyone out in the street. A clatter of tile drew his gaze upwards, to the top of the Essex Wharf offices.

For the briefest moment, so quickly he almost missed it, there was a swirl of dark cloak along the edge of the rooftops.

He felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest and unthinkingly took off, running towards the flashes of movement he caught along the roofline. He managed to keep up for nearly a mile before he lost sight of it, but the adrenaline singing through his veins left him feeling energized and breathless.

_Was that really him?_ Clark wondered. _A whole year of investigation with no tangible results, and I find him **here** of all places? Was it truly…?_


	2. A New Acquisition

_1 September_

Rain gently pattered against the window as Bruce scrubbed a hand through his sleep-ruffled hair. He glared at his reflection in the bureau mirror, leaning heavily on the piece of furniture. He stood there for a while – it felt as though it could have been minutes or hours – before he finally turned around and grabbed a dark blue robe from the plush chair by his bed, pulling it on and tying it securely around his waist.

He quickly stepped into a pair of house slippers at the foot of his bed before rounding it and crossing the room to throw his door open. He stalked down the hallway and silently descended the stairs, passing two floors before reaching ground level and making his way to the private dining room, where a hearty breakfast was already laid out on the long mahogany table.

“Good to see you up and about before noon, sir,” Alfred remarked dryly, pouring a fresh cup of tea. “Your newspaper arrived just a few moments ago.”

Bruce glared, but didn’t respond, instead choosing to seat himself and begin tearing into a scone. He used a free hand to grab the paper conspicuously placed at his elbow and frowned at the front page headline.

REVOLTING AND MYSTERIOUS MURDER OF A WOMAN – BUCK’S ROW WHITECHAPEL

He pursed his lips and forced himself to read the article, even though he knew all the details they could have possibly given and more. Alfred gave him a knowing look as he lifted the silver tea tray.

“You can’t save them all, my lord,” he gently reminded the disgruntled noble.

“Alfred, I was _patrolling in Whitechapel_ that night. I was a stone’s throw from the Board School when it happened. I was _right there._ I should have – ”

“ _You are **one man** , Bruce. You do all you can,_” the butler sternly scolded, causing Bruce’s jaw to snap shut. Alfred gave him a sharp nod. “That’s better. Now, why don’t you finish your scones and return to your bedroom? We have to dress you properly for today’s activities.”

“Is there something scheduled? I thought today was open,” Bruce groaned wearily, resisting the urge to drag a hand down his face.

Alfred’s lips quirked. “You have a visit scheduled at your newest acquisition, your grace. Let the employees behold your lovely visage so they may be inspired to work their hardest.”

Bruce glared at him, but it held no real heat. He _had_ completely forgotten about his appointment, after all. This was one of the few self-indulgent things he’d done in years, though there certainly were perks to owning a newspaper that would help with his nightly activities.

He quickly finished his breakfast and went back upstairs to his room, where Alfred was waiting with a selection of clothing.

“Let’s go with the navy ensemble,” Bruce quickly decided. “Just flashy enough for everyone to make their assumptions about my character.”

The butler gave him a curt bow and busied himself putting the unused clothing back into the wardrobe. Bruce pulled on a white shirt, adjusting the starched collar and tugging on the cuffs, before stepping into a pair of navy blue trousers. Alfred helped him put on the cream waistcoat and waited a moment for Bruce to attach his father’s silver pocketwatch before helping the duke into the matching navy cutaway coat. He then produced an embroidered blue silk puff tie and deftly wrapped it around Bruce’s neck, pinning it to his shirt with a simple silver tiepin engraved with the Wayne coat of arms. A pair of black Oxfords, polished to a perfect shine, completed the outfit.

Bruce nodded his thanks and moved to the vanity, taking a moment to tame his hair with a comb, pushing it back and away from his face, before accepting a black top hat from Alfred’s waiting hands and placing it snugly on his head.

“Now, the editor is expecting you at eleven o’clock sharp, my lord,” Alfred reminded him.

“So I should arrive at twelve o’clock then?” Bruce quipped, smirking slightly. “Wouldn’t want to give them the impression that I’m punctual, after all.”

“Yes, what a travesty that would be, sir,” the butler retorted, his face betraying nothing.

Bruce gave the man a genuine smile before turning to leave, once again descending the stairs and opening the door of a small closet in the entryway, considering the selection of canes within.

“What do you think Alfred? Should I be especially dramatic today?” he asked, grinning mischievously.

“If you find yourself in such a mood, your grace, might I suggest the raven?”

“A fine choice,” Bruce agreed, plucking the black cane topped with a hunched silver raven from the closet and tucking it under his arm.

“Has the carriage been brought around?” he asked, taking a cursory glance out the window.

“Yes, my lord. Edwin should be just outside,” Alfred confirmed.

“Excellent. I’ll see you for dinner then,” Bruce said as the butler opened the front door.

“Indeed. Have a pleasant day, sir.”

Bruce stepped out under the ornate carved stone overhang and down the steps, ignoring the light drizzle and crossing the small courtyard to the carriage waiting for him. The beautiful black stallion hitched to it tossed its head and scuffed at the ground with its hoof. The driver opened the carriage door and bowed as Bruce approached.

“Where we off to today, my lord?” he inquired.

Bruce gave him a small smile. “Fleet Street. I have an appointment at _The Daily Telegraph_.”

 

* * *

 

His feet hit the pavement again at twelve thirty in the city proper. He nodded his thanks to Edwin and sent him off before turning to face the large red brick building before him. He took a moment to admire it before climbing the short steps that led to the front door. He let himself in quietly, closing the door behind him as he entered the small lobby.

A secretary eyed him oddly from behind their desk at the opposite side of the room.

“Can I help you sir?” he inquired.

“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. White. I was promised a tour and a discussion of how things will change under my ownership?” Bruce replied, pitching his voice a bit higher at the end of his sentence and raising an innocent eyebrow.

He took a bit of pleasure in watching the young man’s eyes widen in comprehension as he shot up from his seat and dipped into a short bow.

“My deepest apologies, my lord! I didn’t think you would be coming today! Please, this way,” he directed, opening a door that was tucked into a small hallway around the corner from his desk.

“Oh, no apologies necessary. I realize I’m running a bit late,” Bruce assured, plastering one of his fake, airheaded smiles on as he stepped through the door and tucked his cane under his arm.

The secretary quickly led him down a long hallway, lined with doors on either side. He opened one on the left and stepped through, prompting Bruce to follow him into the noisy newsroom. Reporters rushed by with stacks of papers precariously balanced in their arms. Someone yelled about a reference book they needed that was currently missing. Strangest of all – nobody so much as looked up when Bruce entered the room.

He was used to drawing attention when he went places – even if someone didn’t recognize him as the Duke of Gotham, he carried himself in such a way that people could usually tell he was someone of importance. To walk into a busy room and not suddenly have every head turn his way was a novel experience, but certainly not unwelcome.

His lips quirked up a bit as he followed the secretary around the edge of the room, skirting the chaos brewing in the center. One last glass-paneled door was pushed open and the young man stepped just inside, announcing, “Mr. White, His Grace the Duke of Gotham, Bruce Wayne, is here to see you.”

Bruce couldn’t hear the editor’s response, but he was ushered in shortly after. Perry White’s office was about as no-nonsense as the man himself, it seemed. It was relatively uncluttered, the walls only adorned with a few clipped articles and plaques. The only furniture consisted of his large, sturdy desk, a chair for himself and two for guests, a couple of cabinets (presumably for important documents), and a simple coat stand.

The secretary gave Bruce one last bow before pulling the door shut and muffling the noise outside, leaving Bruce and Perry White in an abrupt silence. The editor rose from his seat and gave a curt bow of his own before gesturing to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Your grace, please make yourself comfortable,” he insisted, waiting as Bruce removed his hat and hung it with his cane on the stand near the office door before crossing the small room and taking a seat.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. White. I understand you’re a busy man,” Bruce began.

The editor hummed as he sat back down and leaned onto his desk, propping his forearms on the smooth surface and rumpling a few documents.

“Well, this is an important occasion, your grace. It’s not often a duke decides to buy a newspaper,” he observed, eyeing Bruce suspiciously.

“It _is_ one of my more eccentric purchases, I’ll admit,” Bruce replied, smiling blandly.

White stared at him for a few more moments before making some kind of silent decision and sighing quietly.

“Well, as owner, you have a say in what kind of stories we publish, so – ”

“Change nothing,” Bruce abruptly insisted, allowing his usual airheaded façade to drop.

White froze, bushy eyebrows furrowing. “Are you…quite sure, your grace?”

“Very. I read this paper every morning because I appreciate its honesty. It doesn’t dance around the issues, it doesn’t publish gossip and sensationalism, it simply tells you the hard, honest truth,” Bruce paused for a moment and smirked. “That’s highly uncommon in high society, so reading _The Telegraph_ is always a breath of fresh air, Mr. White. Far be it from me to be the one to change that.”

The editor eyed him again, but seemed to take his explanation at face value and gave him a sharp nod. “Very well then. You have my thanks, your grace. Would you still be interested in a quick tour of the premises?”

“Certainly! I would love to see the printing press!” Bruce sunnily replied, easily falling back into the “witless aristocrat” routine.

White’s mouth pinched under his mustache, but he rose and opened his door, sticking his head out into the bullpen.

“ _Kent, get over here!”_ he barked.

Bruce heard a bit of scuffling before Mr. White returned to his desk and the doorway was suddenly filled by the broadest pair of shoulders he’d ever seen.

The man nervously shifting in the entryway was tall, but his size seemed to be the only remarkable thing about him. He was clad in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a green tweed waistcoat with matching trousers, and a black string tie, with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He was conventionally handsome, Bruce supposed – raven hair that gently curled above deep blue eyes and strong cheekbones, a square, smooth jaw and sculpted forearms – but the glasses and the hideous outfit were too distracting.

Bruce shook himself out of his daze and flashed White a quick grin. “One of your star reporters, I assume?”

The editor snorted, causing the young man to glare at him. “Somethin’ like that. This is Clark Kent, your grace. Kent, this is our new owner, His Grace the Duke of Gotham. He’d like a quick look at the premises, so why don’t you show him around before he has to leave?”

Kent looked like he wanted to protest, but White’s eye twitched, which the reporter seemed to take as some kind of warning, so he drew himself up to his full height and turned to Bruce.

“Pleasure to meet you, your grace,” he said with a short bow. “If you could follow me.”

Bruce allowed his grin to slip into something a bit wider, a bit more salacious. “Of course,” he purred, slowly rising from the chair and closing the distance between them with two measured strides.

The reporter’s face heated up a bit when Bruce drew near, but he held his ground and didn’t break eye contact. His breathing became a bit heavier as Bruce grabbed his hat and coat without looking away, carefully clasping the former in his left hand and tucking the latter under his right arm.

Bruce felt his lips quirk a bit wider in genuine amusement – apparently Kent had a backbone hidden somewhere under that tweed after all. The duke gestured out the door with his hat and murmured, “Lead the way, sir.”

Kent pursed his lips and flushed further, but he dutifully turned and guided Bruce back into the newsroom.

They left through a different door this time, back out into the hallway, and went in through a door on the opposite side. Bruce immediately heard a mechanical clamor and couldn’t help drawing a quick awed breath as he took in the immense structure before him. The open two-story room was completely dominated by a piece of machinery manned by at least a dozen men, feeding blank papers into the steam-powered cylinders and collecting the finished product from the trays. It hissed and groaned as it moved each paper through a series of plates and rollers, creating a fresh set of newspapers to be sold the next morning.  

“Amazing,” he murmured, eyes trailing along every curve and length of the machine, lingering on the enormous cylinder at the center that housed the printing plates.

“Do you know much about printing presses, your grace?” Kent asked, tilting his head in polite interest.

Bruce caught himself and quickly schooled his features into something less appreciative and more witless.

“Well, it’s certainly large! Makes quite a bit of noise too,” he remarked, breathing an internal sigh of relief as Kent’s expression flattened into tired tolerance.

“I’m glad you think so, your grace,” he droned, barely keeping his sarcasm in check. “Was there anything else in particular you wanted to see today?”

“No, I should probably be off,” Bruce sighed. “Lady Vanaver is hosting another gala tonight, and I need to ensure I have plenty of time to prepare. It wouldn’t do for me to look any less than my best.”

“Of course not,” Kent exasperatedly agreed. “Do you need me to – ”

“Oh, I’ll see myself out,” Bruce cheerfully assured him. “I think I was paying enough attention to navigate the corridors myself. Good day, Mr. Bent.”

He was already crossing the threshold to reenter the hallway when he heard the reporter mutter, “It’s _Kent_.”

Bruce felt his lips curl into another smile of their own accord.

Perhaps purchasing _The Daily Telegraph_ would have some unforeseen benefits after all.


	3. Leather Apron

_2 September_

Clark pulled his overcoat tighter around himself as the breeze picked up. The sun was low in the sky, kissing the rooftops of Whitechapel’s dilapidated skyline. He hadn’t meant to stay out _quite_ this late, but he knew this was the only time of day it was easy to find the people he was looking for.

Between what Inspector Gordon had shared and what Clark found out for himself, he knew Mary Ann Nichols made a living as a maid at the Cowdry estate. However, that proved to be too much pressure and she quit after only two months. She couldn’t find proper employment after that, leaving her unable to stay in a lodging house every night or maintain the steady supply of alcohol she was so fond of, so her main source of income came from prostitution. It was disheartening to hear, but Clark knew that many women in this neighborhood had to do the same. It was just too difficult for unmarried working-class women to earn a living in this town.

However, because of this discovery, Clark knew exactly who he had to speak with to start looking for suspects. The working women tended to live in groups and look out for each other, so they had their own information network. Clark knew the police had probably already spoken with them, but he also suspected that they didn’t tell the constables everything they knew, so he’d resolved to ask around and see if there was anyone suspicious that the women had seen recently.

They weren’t difficult to spot - they tended to linger near pubs, trying to catch the eye of someone who was drunk enough to part with their money for a quick tumble. Clark approached _The Ten Bells_ , which was already packed and had men inside singing loud enough for Clark to catch snippets of the bawdy tune. A young woman wrapped up in a faded shawl stood around the corner from the entrance, just outside the soft glow emanating from the pub’s windows.

Clark approached her slowly, trying to strike a balance between not looking intimidating and not looking like a customer. He had plenty of embarrassing encounters when he first began working for _The Telegraph_ , but some good managed to come of it – he was one of the few reporters in London who would interview these women and take them seriously, so most of them recognized him on sight by now.

This one was no exception – when he stepped into the light from the pub, her posture loosened just a bit and her face softened.

“Out huntin’ for the Bat again, Mr. Kent?” she teased, grinning just a bit when he began sputtering.

“I assure you, I gave that up long ago, Miss…?”

“Call me Mildred,” she finished for him.

“Miss Mildred, then. No, I’m not looking for the Bat anymore, but I would like to ask you something else,” he admitted. “Has there been anyone...bothering you lately? Anyone harassing you or any of your, ah, coworkers?”

Her lips pursed, but she seemed to give his question serious consideration. “Well, there’s been this one chap. Been hangin’ around here for the past year or so. Keeps threatening to make business difficult for us if we don’t share some of our profits, so we’ve all been payin’ him whenever he comes sniffin’ around.”

“He’s been _extorting_ all of you?” Clark gasped incredulously.

“I guess that’s what ya call it,” she conceded. “He’s always wearin’ this ratty leather apron when he comes ‘round, so that’s what we started callin’ ‘im.”

“’Leather Apron,’ huh?” Clark repeated, committing the moniker to memory. “Has he hurt any of you?”

“Hasn’t tried yet. Dunno if the coward’s got the spine to, but we ain’t eager to find out.”

Clark nodded. “I pray you never do,” he replied firmly. “Thank you for your time, Miss Mildred. I hope you have a pleasant evening.”

“You as well, Mr. Kent. Keep yourself out of trouble,” she teasingly chided, giving him a wink before turning to intercept a patron that stumbled out of _The Ten Bells_.

Clark felt his heart clench at the sight, but quickly turned his back on the scene and began making his way towards Brick Lane. For another hour or two, he wandered the sidestreets and alleys, asking other women about this ‘Leather Apron’ character. None of them had anything particularly new, but they all agreed on a few key points.

For one thing, he always came after the sun went down, so none of them knew what he really looked like. He always wore some kind of hat to help hide his face, and the rest of his clothes weren’t anything special, aside from the apron. One observant young woman had noted that his hands were surprisingly callused – she’d expected hands that hadn’t seen a day of work in their lives, but they’d been nothing of the sort.

Clark had taken notes when he still had daylight, but the sun had long since dropped over the horizon, so he had to settle for carefully memorizing the information he received. Whitechapel had almost no street lighting to speak of, and since it was so close to the river, a thick fog would roll in off the water when the temperature dropped. By the time Clark returned to Whitechapel Road for a taxi, it was so dark and foggy he could barely see three feet in front of himself.

He gave a full-body shudder that had nothing to do with the temperature. It was no wonder a woman could die so brutally in this area with no witnesses – the poor thing probably couldn’t even see her attacker until it was too late.

Clark huffed and shook his head, resolutely squaring his shoulders as he hailed a cab. No sense in thinking about that now. He had to focus on finding the culprit so Mary Ann Nichols would be an anomaly, not the beginning of one man’s horrifying legacy.

 

* * *

 

Clark stopped in the city proper, paying the cabbie before pulling out his key to the employee’s entrance at the back of _The Daily Telegraph_. Mr. White had entrusted these to only a few reporters he knew wouldn’t misuse it – Clark suspected he was one of the chosen few because he had shared many a long night with his boss, working through the wee hours of the morning to finish things to their satisfaction.

He fumbled with the key for a moment in the dark, but managed to unlock the door, quickly stepping into the bullpen and re-locking it behind him in an attempt to escape the biting chill. He hung his overcoat by the door and began rummaging the nearby drawers for a candle when he heard a rustling sound. His head snapped up, and he realized there was already a lit candle sitting on the corner of his desk. It bathed the surface in a warm glow, and illuminated the silhouette of the broad man seated there, sifting through a pile of papers.

Clark froze for a moment in panic before relaxing slightly. Surely if this person had broken in, they’d be in the accountant’s office looking for money, not the bullpen for a reporter’s scrawled notes. It must be a coworker…right?

He swallowed nervously, but steeled his resolve and spoke at regular volume.

“Might I ask why you’re going through my desk at such an hour?”

The figure straightened, every line of his body tense and ready to spring into action. He turned his head, agonizingly slowly, to see who had interrupted him.

Clark could have cried with relief. Even half-lit as they were, there was no mistaking that regal brow or those pale blue eyes.

“Ah, yes, Kemp, was it? Good evening.”

“Your grace,” he sighed, not even bothering to correct him, “You gave me a fright. Why are you about at this hour?”

He received a bright smile. “Well, I tend to have frightful insomnia, you see, and simply wandering the halls of my home never does a thing for me, so I decided to come have another look around! And naturally, I’m rather curious about what you all are working on, so I tugged at drawers until I found one that was unlocked. You really ought to be more careful about that,” the duke lightly admonished, gesturing at Clark with a handful of leaflets.

Clark smothered another sigh and just mumbled something vaguely affirmative. The noble didn’t seem inclined to move anytime soon, so Clark carefully began, “Very sorry, your grace, but I was hoping to transcribe some notes before I returned home, so may I…?”

The duke blinked at him a few times before he caught on, smiling again and shuffling the papers to one side of the desk and rising from the chair. “Of course, of course. Transcribe all you need!”

Clark did sigh this time, though this was one of quiet relief and not exasperation. He slowly settled into his chair and pulled his notebook and pencil out of his coat pocket before retrieving fresh paper and his pen from a drawer in his desk. He flipped the notebook open to the beginning of his notes from Miss Mildred and lifted the pen, setting it to the paper to begin the process of copying things over, when he noticed he still wasn’t alone in the room.

He glanced at the duke from the corner of his eye, taking in the man’s relaxed posture – he was gracefully settled in the chair at the desk to Clark’s left, an expectant smile on his face and a sort of childlike excitement in his eyes.

“Can I…help you, your grace?” he hesitantly inquired.

“Oh, don’t mind me. I’d just like to watch you work, if it’s no trouble,” he brightly replied.

It was Clark’s turn to blink uncomprehendingly, looking for some twitch in the duke’s expression to indicate he was jesting.

But no such indication appeared, and the noble hadn’t moved, so Clark managed to stutter out, “I – well, I guess that’s alright.”

The duke smiled and leaned back in the chair. This moved him to the outer reaches of the candle’s glow, causing the shadows cast on his face to deepen, but the warmth in his eyes didn’t abate. Somehow, in this kind of lighting, he looked less like the irresponsible rake Clark had come to assume he was and more like a thoughtful, intensely lonely man. He was almost a complete stranger.

Clark bit his lip and let his eyes fall back to the paper in front of him.

This was going to be a long night, but perhaps not for the same reasons he had earlier assumed.


	4. The Vanaver Gala

_5 September_

A fire quietly crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows along the walls of Bruce’s study. Bookcases ringed nearly the entire perimeter of the room, stretching from floor to ceiling and filled to the brim with texts on just about every subject, from poetry and history to psychology and engineering. A dignified portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne hung above the mantle, where an ornate Swiss clock filled the room with its quiet _tick tock_. Bruce himself was seated not at his sturdy oak desk, but instead at a plush chair just in front of the fireplace.

He hummed thoughtfully as he poured over the latest edition of _The_ _Daily Telegraph_ , propping his feet on a low stool and settling into his seat. It seemed Kent went back to Whitechapel to investigate since Bruce saw him last.

LEATHER APRON – THE ONLY NAME LINKED WITH THE WHITECHAPEL MURDERS

He had to give the reporter credit – he was certainly thorough. The working women of Whitechapel must have some measure of trust in him if they were willing to go into such detail about Leather Apron.

Bruce read the article, but it didn’t provide any new insights. Between what Bruce had gleaned from Kent’s notes three nights ago and what he dug up for himself on patrol, he had just about all the information one man could cobble together, and it _still_ wasn’t enough. Bruce’s brow creased as he carefully folded the newspaper and set it in his lap. He wanted to ask Kent if he had discovered anything else that he’d neglected to document, but it’d be too suspicious if Bruce Wayne suddenly had an interest in the death of a prostitute. Perhaps the Bat would have to pay the reporter a visit…

A sharp rapping at the study door quickly drew Bruce from his thoughts. “Yes?”

“Your grace, if you wish to arrive at Lady Vanaver’s in a timely fashion, I’m afraid we must begin preparations,” Alfred drawled from behind the closed door.

Bruce barely suppressed a weary sigh. The most tiresome task he had to deal with to cultivate his public persona was, without a doubt, the galas and events he was expected to attend and pretend he enjoyed. Nobody at these things had anything worthwhile to say, so the topics of conversation were often restricted to things like fashion and who would likely be invited to the _next_ big party. Simply scintillating.

But he knew this was a necessary precaution to keep people from figuring out who was really behind Batman’s cowl, so he took a fortifying breath and rose from the chair, leaving the paper on the floor and crossing the expanse of the dark blue rug to open the door.

It wasn’t long before he was in his bedroom, just down the hall, and dressed head to toe in all the finery required for the affair. A black coat and trousers, maroon waistcoat over a white shirt, with a black bowtie and polished Oxfords. Silver cufflinks adorned his sleeves, and his father’s pocket watch was secured in its usual place on his waistcoat. He pulled on a pair of white gloves and accepted a black top hat from his butler.

“Please have my uniform prepared by the time I return,” Bruce requested, fitting the hat on his head. “I can already tell tonight will be unbearable – I’ll need the comfort of knowing I can go on patrol to release my frustrations instead of frightening Doctor Elliot again.”

“Of course, sir,” Alfred dutifully agreed, following Bruce downstairs and opening the front door.

Bruce quickly grabbed a simple governor cane, black with a silver top, and gave Alfred a nod as he stepped outside. Edwin gave him a small smile and a bow as he opened the carriage door, helping Bruce in before closing it again.

Bruce leaned back and allowed a gusty sigh to escape his lips as the carriage began to pull out of Alexandra Court. This whole thing would be a massive waste of time, he was sure, but he had to put in an appearance. Samantha Vanaver was the current object of Brucie’s flighty affections, so he couldn’t afford to miss anything she hosted. At least she lived nearby, he thought wearily. Kensington was a fairly exclusive neighborhood, after all.

He impatiently tapped the head of his cane, resigning himself to his fate and staring pensively out the carriage window into the night.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes. He’d been here for all of ten minutes, and he’d already been cornered by the same group of harpies that always seemed to find him. He forced himself to smile and nod occasionally as they unsubtly talked about potential suitors and wedding plans, standing far closer to him than decorum called for. He held an untouched glass of champagne in one of his hands, and if he weren’t going on patrol later, he most certainly would’ve downed it by now.

His eyes darted about the expansive ballroom as he tried to find a way to excuse himself when a delighted “Bruce!” drew his attention.

“Ah, good evening, Samantha,” he smoothly acknowledged, taking her hand and pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “You are a _vision_ tonight, my dear.”

Objectively, she truly was. Her blonde hair was expertly coiffed, some curls held in place with gold clips shaped like crawling vines while others tumbled down her back. Her red silk dress had a square neckline, showing off an expanse of creamy skin and a ruby pendant that matched her earrings. The sleeves clung to her upper arms, giving way to soft ruffles of fabric at her elbow. The whole dress tapered at her waist before flaring out into embroidered skirts with lace along the bottom edge. She carried herself with an enviable grace, and her ruby lips curled into a soft smile as Bruce returned her hand.

“You flatter me, your grace. You cut a fine figure yourself,” she noted, playfully eying him up and down before turning to the group she had been talking to. “I’m sure you all know His Grace the Duke of Gotham, Bruce Wayne.”

There were some murmurs of confirmation in the circle, along with a few bows and curtsies. Bruce smiled and offered a short bow of his own before the conversation started again.

“If the city would just take the time to put _actual lighting_ over there, I’m sure this kind of thing wouldn’t be such a problem,” one man insisted.

“Why bother?” another drawled, smoothing his mustache, “Those kind of people are always prone to…distasteful activities.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed. He leaned down until his lips almost brushed Samantha’s ear and quietly asked, “Pray tell, what are they discussing?”

She smiled and turned her head, gently grasping Bruce’s arm and leaning in even closer. “That woman who was murdered in Whitechapel last week. Nichols, was it?”

Bruce’s features shuttered for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure and hummed in response, straightening his back and rejoining the conversation.

“ – doesn’t matter _what_ she did for a living, it was awful,” one woman insisted.

“She wasn’t making an honest living. The whole thing was really all for the best,” the mustached man retorted.

“What do _you_ think, your grace?”

All eyes suddenly focused on the duke, who allowed himself a fortifying sip of champagne before replying.

“Well, I think it doesn’t much matter who a person is or what they do. _Nobody_ deserves to die in a dirty alley over one man’s whims.”

The simple statement achieved the exact reaction Bruce had been hoping for – the entire group clammed up and looked away, faces twisted with shame.

“Of course, your parents….my deepest apologies, your grace. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Certainly seems like it!” Bruce replied brightly, causing the man to flinch slightly. “Well, it was wonderful meeting all of you, but I should be going. I hope you all have a pleasant evening.”

He received a flurry of hurried bows, curtsies, and apologies before he pulled away, escaping to the edge of the ballroom and down a servant’s corridor. He eyes drifted shut and he indulged himself in a few moments of deep breathing, trying to calm his thundering pulse and quell the urge to go find the mustached man again and break his jaw. He was interrupted by a quiet, tentative “Bruce?”

He opened his eyes and saw Samantha hesitantly approaching him, delicate brows pinched with concern.

“Are you alright, darling? You mustn’t mind Reese, he isn’t terribly bright and – ”

“Samantha,” he gently interrupted, “It’s alright. This isn’t the first time it’s happened.”

She frowned and took Bruce’s hands in hers, rubbing her thumbs over his knuckles.

“It was…it was just so awful. Everyone should _remember_ that tragedy, and here he is, blustering on like he knows _anything_ about the residents of Whitechapel…”

She continued grumbling, staring intently at their joined hands, and Bruce smiled despite himself. If he did finally have to marry someone, perhaps Miss Vanaver wouldn’t be the worst he could do.

He lifted their hands and kissed her knuckles again, letting his lips linger on the smooth skin.

“Thank you, Samantha. Your concern is touching,” he quietly admitted, whispering against her hands.

A light flush dusted her cheekbones and her verdant eyes widened at how unusually forward he was, but she smiled and lightly squeezed his hands.

“However,” he continued, “I really do have to be going. I have obligations early tomorrow morning, and I’d hate to have anything less than a full night’s rest.”

Her smile gained a mournful edge, but she curtsied and slowly released him. “Very well. Then I bid you goodnight. Pleasant dreams, Bruce.”

He gave her a soft parting grin of his own before bowing and turning to make his way down the hall. When he was sure she was out of sight, he stopped for a moment and took another deep, focusing breath.

No, nobody deserved to suffer such a horrific death. His parents didn’t, and neither did Mary Ann Nichols. He’d never be able to find the man who killed his mother and father, but he could definitely find Miss Nichols’ assailant. For her sake, for the sake of all the working women in Whitechapel, he _had_ to find them.

Nobody would be found in a pool of blood in a London alley ever again. Not if he had anything to say about it.


	5. Annie Chapman

_8 September_

Clark helplessly tried to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn without much success. He had no idea why he’d agreed to meet a contact in Whitechapel before six thirty in the bloody morning, but here he was, waiting at their agreed-upon spot in front of the Spitalfields marketplace along Commercial Street, completely alone.

He sighed and shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his tweed coat.

“Another no-show,” he grumbled, taking another cursory glance down the street. Despite the early hour, people were out and about – mostly vendors preparing to open their stalls at the marketplace, loading in the last of their wares. A police constable was posted near the main entrance, as was usually the case, looking just about as thrilled to be up this early as Clark was.

The reporter sighed again and had just resigned himself to finding a taxi home when a harried-looking man nearly bowled him over. Clark received a brief apology in passing, but the man didn’t slow down until he reached the constable, hunching over and drawing deep breaths.

Clark couldn’t hear the whole conversation from where he was standing, but he caught “Henry Holland,” “Hanbury Street,” and “body” between the man’s heaving gasps. He didn’t need to hear the constable’s curt reply – Clark knew it was against procedure for him to leave his post.

Unable to help himself, Clark approached the two, calmly cutting into the beginning of the tired man’s rant about how important this was with a quiet, “Sorry, I don’t mean to intrude, but is there a problem, Mr. Holland?”

“ _Is there a problem!?! **Yes** there’s a problem!” _he cried, nearly smacking Clark as he threw a hand out to gesture a short ways up the road. “Old John Davis just found a dead woman in his backyard and this git won’t do nothin’ about it!”

“If you don’t mind me asking, where does Mr. Davis live?” Clark gently inquired.

“He’s on 29 Hanbury Street. Listen, I’m goin’ to the Police Station. If this muppet can’t do nothin’, maybe someone _there_ can,” Holland grumbled, turning his back on them and jogging down the road.

The constable muttered something rude under his breath, but didn’t address Clark, so he took that as his cue to move on. He went up the road and made a right onto Hanbury, hoping that perhaps his early trip to Whitechapel wouldn’t be such a waste after all.

 

* * *

 

A number of spectators had already gathered in the narrow road, though a grumpy constable was irritably forcing them to disperse. Clark pushed his way through the crowd and was prepared to rattle off his credentials so he could pass, but stopped short when he recognized the policeman.

“Constable Bullock! Good morning!”

The constable narrowed his eyes for a moment before they lit up in recognition. “Kent,” he acknowledged, “it’s morning, but I wouldn’t call it good. Inspector Gordon is out back.”

Clark gave him a short nod of thanks before continuing on, entering the home at number 29 and passing through the cramped interior before reemerging out back. Almost immediately, he was hit with a gut-wrenching odor and he had to stop and scramble for a handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth. Holland had said there was a body, but nothing could’ve prepared Clark for _this_.

The woman was laying on the ground, just in front of the fence separating the yard from an adjacent one. Her entire body was battered and mutilated, and there was a deep, savage wound in her throat. There was a smear of blood on the fence behind her head, as though she slid down it at some point, and spatters of the stuff all over the yard. She was laying on her back, and her clothes had been pulled up above her waist, revealing red and white striped stockings.

“Christ,” Clark muttered, muffled by his handkerchief.

Inspector Gordon snorted, stepping closer to the body and eying it critically. “Sums it up nicely, Mr. Kent,” he agreed. “From what we’ve gotten out of the witnesses, Mr. John Davis stepped into his backyard at six o’clock this morning and found her like this. He got a couple of passing workmen to help him alert the police, then promptly left to find himself some brandy. The victim still hasn’t been identified. Doctor Thompkins is on his way, so hopefully we’ll have more information soon.”

Clark hummed thoughtfully, observing the body as best as he could from where he was standing by the back door – he didn’t dare come any closer, mindful of his empty stomach.

They didn’t have to wait long – a few minutes after the lull in their conversation, a middle-aged man in a black suit hustled through the back door and stepped out into the yard, nearly hitting Clark with his bag.

“So sorry,” he apologized. “Doctor Lester Thompkins, at your service.”

“Clark Kent, _Daily Telegraph_. It’s a pleasure, Doctor,” Clark responded, giving the man a brief but firm handshake.

Thompkins released their grip and turned to Inspector Gordon. “You always find the ghastly ones, don’t you, Inspector?” he observed, setting his bag down and crouching to inspect the body.

“They _do_ seem to fall under my purview,” Gordon remarked dryly, stepping back to give the doctor some space.

The three men shared another brief silence as the doctor pulled the necessary instruments out of his bag and began giving the body a thorough once-over. He would occasionally mutter his observations – “swollen face,” “a _fine_ set of teeth,” “a marked stiffness in the limbs,” “tongue is swollen, protruding from the teeth.”

He came up short when he reached her abdomen, prodding at another wound there, barely visible under the layers of her clothing. Clark watched in a kind of fascinated horror as the doctor held it open and inspected it closely, lips pinching in concentration or confusion, Clark couldn’t tell which.

“Well,” Thompkins began, “I can’t be sure until I conduct a proper post mortem, but…it appears this woman’s uterus was removed.”

“Good God!” “Oh my…”

Gordon’s balking drowned out Clark’s faint whisper as the inspector continued rattling off questions, most of which Doctor Thompkins evenly replied with some variation of “We won’t know until the post mortem.” Clark probably should’ve been listening, but the doctor’s last words were just echoing through his head like a broken record.

_Uterus was removed_

_Uterus was removed_

_This woman’s uterus was removed_

Who would ever....why would someone….Clark couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around it. The assailant couldn’t settle for just disemboweling her and slitting her throat, he had to…

To…

Wait, didn’t that sound familiar?

Clark thought back to Mary Nichols, who was also found in the wee hours of the morning in Whitechapel. With a brutal neck wound and a slice to the midsection. And it was only a little over a week ago…

He knew a lot went on in this city, but Clark didn’t believe in coincidence – Mary Nichols’ killer still hadn’t been found, so who’s to say he’d stopped at her?

Clark lowered his handkerchief and opened his mouth to mention the possibility to the inspector, but Gordon was still grilling Doctor Thompkins, getting redder in the face by the minute. If he kept that up, it would almost match his hair, Clark idly noted.

Instead, he uttered a quiet “Good day” and turned to leave, going back through the house and leaving through the front door. Apparently Bullock hadn’t been very successful at clearing the area – the crowd outside number 29 was now several hundred strong, a mass of curious bodies pressed together in an attempt to catch a glimpse through the entryway. Clark shoved his way through, ignoring questions about what had happened, and didn’t stop until he was back out on Commercial Street and away from the crowded corridor of Hanbury.

He took a few deep breaths, relishing the fresh air, and considered his options. If this _was_ the same person who killed Mary Nichols, then he possibly had a serial killer on his hands. He had to find out more about the latest victim – did she know Mary? Was there some kind of connection? Some factor that would make the same person kill both of them?

He had too many questions that he just couldn’t answer right now. Clark huffed in frustration, but knew he probably wouldn’t get anywhere by standing on a street corner. He went to the edge of the sidewalk and hailed a cab, climbing in and keeping their interaction short.

“To _The Daily Telegraph_ , please.”

He had work to do.


	6. Patrolling London

_10 September_

Bruce pulled himself up onto the edge of the rooftop, crouching on the corner and surveying the district of Whitechapel, cloak spilling off the stonework and rustling in the breeze. A thick, rolling fog obscured most of the world below, but the waxing moon provided adequate lighting for Bruce’s purposes tonight.

He carefully adjusted his cowl, ensuring it sat properly on his face, and twitched in an aborted attempt to fidget and make himself more comfortable. Even after over a year of prowling the city as Batman, he still wasn’t entirely used to the uniform.

By all appearances, what he wore under the cloak didn’t seem remarkable – a plain shirt that hugged his arms, a waistcoat, gloves, and trousers, all in black and made with durable materials – but what most people didn’t notice until they tried to stab him was the amount of leather reinforcing in the fabric, especially the waistcoat. After extensive research and internal debate, Bruce thought it was the most suitable material – durable and thick enough to protect him from the worst of the wounds he received, but flexible enough to leave his movements unhindered.

The part of the uniform that people didn’t underestimate was the part that earned him his moniker. The cowl was also reinforced with leather, more heavily than any other part of his uniform. It was molded to his head and revealed only his mouth and eyes, with two protrusions from his skull to give him a distinctive silhouette. His cloak was attached to it just below the neck, and made with a waterproof material to repel the nigh-constant rainfall. Bruce had spent many sleepless nights developing and testing it himself, aided by Alfred’s unique expertise. The entire undertaking culminated in a uniform that the criminal underworld of London had come to recognize and fear, just as Bruce had hoped.

His heavy leather boots creaked as he rose from his crouch. His cloak whipped in the wind as he contemplated his next move and reviewed what he already knew.

The woman found at Hanbury Street was Annie Chapman, an inoffensive drunk who sold crochet work and artificial flowers by day and supplemented that income with prostitution by night. In the four months prior to her death, she had been living at Crossingham's lodging house at number 35 Dorset Street, often sharing her bed with two regular clients. Her health had been rapidly failing for some time, and as a result, she didn’t have money for her lodgings the night of September seventh. She went out, slightly tipsy but no worse for wear, intending to quickly find a client. The last time she was supposedly seen was in the Ten Bells pub at five thirty in the morning, where she left with a man in a little skull cap, but after seeing the nervous body language of the bartender as he reported this, Bruce was inclined to dismiss his testimony.

Considering all the traits Miss Chapman shared with Miss Nichols, including her fondness for drink and her night job, Bruce thought it wasn’t a stretch to consider the same person killed both women. The wounds were also quite similar, and extremely savage. Whoever this was, they probably had some kind of twisted vendetta against women, possibly prostitutes in particular. Bruce didn’t have enough information to narrow it down any further, but he was confident in at least this much. Tonight was all about closing that gap and seeing what the local lowlives could tell him.

He took a deep breath and threw himself from the ledge, freefalling for a moment before firing off his grapple gun, catching the edge of another building and swinging to one just below. From there, he silently ran from one rooftop to the next, leaping the short gaps in between. He slowed when he approached one of the few buildings that was still lit at this hour – a local meeting place for the businessmen of Whitechapel. He carefully scaled down the side of the brick structure and stopped next to one of the large windows. He reached out and slowly pulled it open, just a crack, and lowered himself to better hear the heated discussion that had clearly been underway for quite some time.

“ – police _clearly_ can’t do this on their own, so I say _we_ do something about it!”

“Like what, Lusk? If the professionals can’t catch a killer, how could we?”

“There’s only so many of ‘em, and they haven’t given a damn about Whitechapel for years! We’ve got to look out for our own!”

A low murmur of reluctant assent rolled through the group before Lusk continued.

“We can call it the Mile End Vigilance Committee. Try and get some of the others to join up and agree to take shifts. Patrol the neighborhood and look for suspicious individuals. That sort of thing, yes?”

The room was filled with conflicted murmurs, but Bruce didn’t stick around to see what they’d decided. Their intentions were noble, but he doubted anything would come of it – whoever this killer was, they were far too sophisticated to be caught by a bunch of businessmen.

Bruce climbed back up to the roof and circled back towards Hanbury Street, looking for one of his regulars to interrogate. He ran along close rooftops, occasionally grappling across the wider streets, eyes scanning the foggy roads as best as they could. He had just passed Brick Lane and was approaching Spital Street when he heard a commotion down in one of the narrow alleys. He positioned himself on the lowest rooftop near the struggle and strained his ears, trying to discern if his assistance was needed before he threw himself into the fog.

“ – under arrest for the suspected murder of Mary Nichols.”

Ah, Scotland Yard then. Curiosity piqued, Bruce leapt from the roof and landed silently in an adjacent alley, edging closer to the corner of the building and sticking to the shadows as the suspect hollered and spat at the officers.

“Dunno wha’ you tossers are on about! Ain’t nobody’s ever called me ‘Leather Apron’ in my life! I didn’t kill nobody, you hear me!?!”

“Yes, I’m sure, Mr. Pizer,” one of the constables patiently replied, wrestling the man into handcuffs and pushing him towards the main road. As the indignant shouting faded into the night, Bruce sighed at another dead end.

John Pizer was someone he had been looking into once he heard the name ‘Leather Apron’ being thrown around. He’d confirmed that Pizer was the man who belonged to the title, and he did harass and extort the local prostitutes, but Bruce had also managed to rule him out as the killer when he looked into the shoemaker’s whereabouts the nights the two women were killed. He had airtight alibis, and no real motivation to kill them.

Stifling an annoyed grumble, Bruce climbed back up to the roofline and continued his prowl. Clearly, this was all evidence for the old adage, “If you want something done right, you do it yourself.”

 

* * *

 

“Welcome home, sir. I take it patrol was uneventful tonight?”

Alfred didn’t bat an eyelash when Bruce slid into his house through an open window, closing it behind himself and dripping water onto the wood floors. His butler tutted and steered him to the nearest bathroom, giving strict instructions to disrobe and wash up, before closing the door and bustling off to clean the duke’s mess.

Slowly, Bruce peeled off his cowl before moving on to the uniform, thankful that his cloak had kept the sudden storm from completely drenching him. He was, however, a bit chilled, so he was thankful for the warm bath that Alfred always had waiting for him. Once his garments were a pile on the tiled floor, Bruce carefully lowered himself into the tub, groaning aloud as his muscles began to relax. He allowed himself the luxury of a few minutes of rest, simply closing his eyes and letting the tension drain from his battered body, before sitting up and washing himself as he ruminated on the new information he’d collected.

To his enormous frustration, it wasn’t much, but he supposed every bit was a piece of the bigger picture, so he wasn’t about to complain. The night wasn’t _completely_ fruitless, after all. After cornering a local vagrant, he learned that the resident of number 27 Hanbury Street had been in his backyard just before five thirty in the morning, just in time to hear a nearby woman say “No” to somebody, though he couldn’t tell where the voice came from. He went back inside, then came out again at five thirty-two in time to hear something thud against the fence that separated his yard from number 29. At the very least, this narrowed the window of time in which Chapman was killed, which was crucial to establishing suspects’ whereabouts and calling out false alibis.

The water was beginning to approach lukewarm, so Bruce reluctantly rose and grabbed a towel, briskly drying his body before wrapping himself in a heavy robe and taking the towel to his hair so he didn’t drip on the floors again. As he stepped out of the bathroom and began making the trek back to his bedroom, Bruce pondered his schedule for the upcoming week. Perhaps he could pay the _Telegraph_ another visit and check in on Kent.

Just to see if he had dug up anything new, of course.


	7. A Man’s True Nature

_13 September_

Clark glared at the pile of notes on his desk, trying to will them into some kind of coherent order. Nearly a week had passed since Annie Chapman’s death, and he was still no closer to finding her killer. He’d pieced enough together to confirm his suspicions about this being the work of the same person who killed Mary Nichols, but he hadn’t gotten much farther than that. He’d finished his article on it, at least, and was just waiting to hear back from Jimmy Olsen, one of the paper’s illustrators. He was Clark’s favorite to work with – unlike most of the artists, Jimmy was actually willing to collaborate with him and use some of his feedback, so they could present a beautifully polished article and illustration for Mr. White.

Clark was just beginning to contemplate organizing the papers and stashing them away when Jimmy came hustling over to his desk, looking a little out of breath.

“Everything alright?” Clark hesitantly inquired, barely hearing the teen’s quiet pants over the din of the bullpen.

“Mr. White wants to see ya,” he gasped, doubling over and bracing himself on Clark’s desk. “ _Urgently_.”

Clark frowned, but rose from his seat and made his way over to the glass-paneled door, which was already slightly ajar. He stepped in and shut it behind him, starting, “You wanted to see me sir?”

But before he could add anything else, he turned and nearly choked on his tongue. The Duke of Gotham was lounging in one of the visitors’ chairs, looking for all the world like there was no place he’d rather be. His grey suit, complete with a maroon waistcoat and black puff tie, made Clark feel horribly underdressed in his blue tweed, but he supposed that was to be expected. The noble’s lips quirked into a small smile, likely at the face Clark was making, but Mr. White cut in before Clark could salvage the situation.

“His grace has specifically requested that you accompany him today. You’ve got the day off, Kent. Keep him busy,” he gruffly instructed.

Clark only managed a bewildered “Wuh?” before the duke rose from his seat and dropped his black top hat back onto his head.

“Don’t disappoint me, Kent. I’ll be waiting out front,” he purred, arm brushing against Clark’s as he passed by and left the office, the sharp tap of his shoes lost to the bustle of the bullpen.

Clark stood in the doorway for a moment, gaping in disbelief, but a quick, reprimanding “ _Kent_ ” from his boss snapped him out of his daze. He turned on his heel and hurried to his desk, gathering up the loose papers and stuffing them into a relatively uncluttered drawer. He threw on his jacket and nervously adjusted his glasses, trying to decide if he should bring his notebook or not. Was this an interview? It _had_ to be. Why else would the duke want Clark as an escort?

To hell with it. Clark left the notebook behind and crossed the bullpen in long strides, dodging people carrying unwieldy stacks of papers and quickly stepping out into the hallway. He gave the secretary at the front desk a nod, ignoring the knowing look on the young man’s face, and quickly exited the building, scanning the sidewalk for an imposing figure that was quickly becoming familiar.

The duke stood out by the curb, both hands propped on his raven cane and face tilted towards the sky. He appeared to be lost in thought, his lips slightly parted and his eyes unfocused.

He was almost reluctant to interrupt, but Clark figured the duke was a busy man, so he carefully approached him and quietly cleared his throat. The noble blinked rapidly and his eyes slowly focused, but he quickly turned his head to look at Clark, a cheery smile stretching across his face.

“Shall we?” he offered, gesturing down the sidewalk and stepping in the same direction. Clark clambered to keep up with the duke’s long strides, barely managing to ask, “Did you have a destination in mind, your grace?”

The duke’s smile softened, still cheerful, but no longer aggressively so. “It’s a bit of a hike, but I thought we could go to Hyde Park. I could do with the exercise, and it would be nice to go for a stroll on the walking trails before the weather takes a permanent turn for the worse. Fall is always so dreary, don’t you think?”

Clark hummed in consideration. “I suppose. I sort of enjoy it though. Sitting in your home and listening to the rain outside, curled up by the fire with a fresh cup of tea – it has its own appeal, I think.”

The duke seemed a little startled at Clark’s response, but before Clark could regret giving a thoughtful reply, his lips curled into a small smile. It wasn’t like any of the ones Clark had seen on him so far. It wasn’t obnoxious, it wasn’t forced, it seemed… _real_. Soft and genuine and everything Clark thought this man wasn’t capable of.

However, it was gone in a flash as the duke turned his head to the road before them and he began chattering about the merits of staying in during the fall versus the freedom of roaming the city during the summer. Clark quietly mourned the loss and tried to nod at the appropriate times as they continued down the street, finding himself paying more attention to the duke’s lips than any of the words coming out of them.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the walk was fairly uneventful, and the pair made it to Hyde Park in good time. The sun was peeking through the clouds, so plenty of families had picnic blankets spread out in the grass, attempting to enjoy the last bit of sunshine.

The duke guided Clark along a walking trail that wound along the edge of the treeline, providing a view of the sweeping meadow and a bit of sun while simultaneously drawing as little attention to themselves as possible. The noble’s chatter had died down by now, so the two walked in a congenial silence, listening to the distant cries of children rolling in the grass and chasing each other around the lake.

Clark was trying to decide whether he should ask why the duke called on him in the first place, but his train of thought was interrupted when he beheld a trainwreck in motion.

A little boy had just sprinted past the duke, shooting into the trees and giggling wildly. A young girl was in pursuit, but neither she nor the noble noticed each other, so it was with a resounding _thud_ that she collided with his leg, bouncing back so hard that she landed on her rear.

Clark had no idea what to do. He held his breath as the girl blinked, seeming to realize it was a person she’d run into, then paled slightly when she saw the quality of his clothing.

“ ‘m so sorry, m’lord, I didn’t mean – ”

“Hush,” the duke gently reprimanded, face soft as he squatted and offered her his hand. “There was no harm done. Are you alright?”

She mumbled something that sounded like “ ‘m fine,” but she reluctantly took his hand so he could help her stand. He reached out and gently brushed the leaves off her skirts, giving her a once-over as though looking for injuries.

“Wonderful! You be careful now, alright? Wouldn’t want such a lovely young lady hurting herself because of some brash little boy,” he teased, smiling gently and giving her a quick wink.

She blushed and giggled, offering a quiet, “Yessir, I’ll be careful” before giving him a small curtsy and skipping off into the trees.

Clark, admittedly, was a little shell-shocked. He stared at the spot the child had occupied until the duke’s groan broke him out of his reverie. He slowly rose from his squat and stretched his legs a bit, turning this way and that as though inspecting them.

“These trousers are really not made for squatting,” he mumbled absently, assessing the state of his pants. A bit louder, he asked, “Do you see any tears?”

Clark obediently checked all the seams (and perhaps lingered a bit too long at the ones along his backside) before assuring the duke that his trousers had escaped unscathed.

“Good. I’d rather not have to return home so soon to attend to a wardrobe malfunction,” he commented, picking his cane up from where he’d dropped it in his haste to help the girl. He straightened up and turned to Clark, offering him another private smile. “Walk with me a bit longer?”

Clark didn’t understand. Before him was a man known for his stupidity and selfishness. A man who was flighty and thoughtless and egotistical and yet, he was none of those things. The man in front of him now was kind and patient and appreciated the quiet. He was thoughtful and caring, and nothing like the man Clark had heard so many stories about. So which was real? Which was the true Duke of Gotham?

Clark didn’t hesitate when he answered.

“Of course, your grace.”


	8. Looking For Answers

_22 September_

Bruce hunched over his desk, squinting through a magnifying glass as he used a thin metal rod to check the gears in the disassembled grapple gun. He’d developed the whole thing from scratch, using some of the most advanced techniques in the field of engineering, but as was the case with all new technology, he was still working out some kinks. It just so happened this was a little more pertinent to attend to – he nearly fell five stories last night when the damn thing jammed while he was in mid-air. He’d managed to catch himself on a balcony, but he’d rather not have to do that again.

He’d feared he wouldn’t be able to patrol out in Whitechapel tonight (he found trying to cross the city without the grapple gun posed some challenges), but he managed to find the gear that kept catching, shaving down the obstruction and testing it again. It passed muster, so he carefully reassembled the contraption and tucked his tools back into the desk. Alfred knocked, so Bruce bid him to enter.

“I see you’ve fixed the problem, sir,” he dryly observed. “I take it you intend to go out for the night, then?”

“Yes. Please get out my uniform, Alfred.”

“Very well,” he acquiesced, leaving the study. Bruce gave the grapple gun one last inspection before deeming it acceptable, following his butler back to his room.

He had unfinished business in Whitechapel.

 

* * *

 

The rain fell from the sky in sheets. Bruce could hardly see a thing past his arm’s reach, but his cloak was serving its purpose – his uniform was, for the most part, still dry. As expected, there weren’t many people roaming the streets, so tonight was relatively quiet. He only had to stop two muggings while he combed Whitechapel for clues to the killer’s identity.

Unfortunately, the night had been rather quiet on that front as well. No new leads turned up, and it was late enough that Bruce was forced to consider returning home empty-handed. He took shelter under an overhang on a third story balcony, absently watching the road below while he debated the merits of patrolling for another hour versus going back to a dry robe and a warm fire.

A flicker of movement drew his attention to a sidestreet across the way. A large figure was peering out from under an umbrella, glancing up and down the main road furtively. Bruce frowned, shuffling to the edge of the balcony to get a better look while keeping out of sight. The figure, distinctly male upon closer inspection, hurried across the street and ducked into an alley adjacent to the building Bruce was sheltered by. He quickly rose and climbed up to the roof, running across and jumping to the next one, closely following the suspicious person through the sidestreets of Whitechapel. They went about five blocks before the man stopped, checking the road again before opening a gate and entering someone’s backyard. It was with a start that Bruce realized they had stopped at 29 Hanbury Street.

Though he doubted the killer would be so sloppy as to return to the scene, this was definitely unusual enough to warrant Bruce’s attention. He dropped down to street level and slipped through the open gate, readying himself for a fight when the figure came back into view, squatting by the fence where Annie Chapman’s body was found with his back to Bruce. From this close, he could see that the man wore a tweed suit underneath his overcoat and had a shock of unruly raven hair. Something unpleasant settled in the pit of his stomach as Bruce closed in, watching as the increasingly familiar figure reached out with a free hand to pat at the muddy ground and hum thoughtfully before straightening out and rising from his crouch. By the time he turned around, Bruce was close enough to slap a hand over his mouth before he could scream, blue eyes widening behind wire-framed glasses.

“I am going to remove my hand. Don’t make a sound, do you understand?” Bruce growled.

Kent nodded slowly, obediently leaving his lips sealed when Bruce withdrew. The two considered each other for a moment in silence before Bruce narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, well, I just, you see, I’m Cl – ”

“Clark Kent, _Daily Telegraph_ , yes. I know who you are and what you do for a living. That doesn’t answer my question. _What are you doing here_ ,” he repeated, stepping close enough to the reporter that he was now partially shielded by the man’s umbrella.

To his surprise (and displeasure), Kent didn’t cower or balk the way most people did. His eyes widened and he gasped quietly, but it seemed closer to….awe? That couldn’t be right. Whatever it was, it vanished in an instant, replaced with steely determination. He straightened his spine and looked Bruce in the eye as he replied, “I’m investigating the deaths of Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman. I have reason to believe the same person committed both murders, and I’m going to find out who it is.”

Bruce allowed himself to admire the man’s courage for only a brief moment before irritation took over. “And you really think the best way to go about doing that is to wander the streets at night. At the same time and part of town both women were killed.”

Kent wavered for a moment, but quickly regained his bravado and lifted his chin defiantly. “If that’s what it takes, then yes. Those women and their families deserve closure, and someone that dangerous shouldn’t be allowed to walk free. Not after what they’ve done.”

Bruce hesitated. It was as though the reporter had plucked the words straight from his thoughts, so closely did his sentiments echo Bruce’s own. Bruce had reluctantly admitted to himself some time ago that he may…enjoy Kent’s presence. A bit more than he likely ought to. But now, watching this bespectacled, fussy reporter hold his own against the Bat of London, standing up for what he believed was the right thing to do, Bruce feared that his feelings might run quite a bit deeper than that.

All the more reason for him to do what he must.

He squared his shoulders, taking up as much space as he could, and leaned in close. “Listen to me very carefully, Mr. Kent,” he hissed, “what you are doing is dangerous and foolhardy. You stand no better chance of finding the killer than the police do, and you are far more likely to get yourself killed in the process than they are. Leave the investigation to the people who’ve been trained for it. _Go home_.”

“How is my investigation any different from yours? Last I checked, you don’t exactly work with law enforcement either,” Kent retorted, frowning thunderously.

“I said to leave it to people _who’ve been trained_. I’ve been dealing with the scum of London for far longer and in much closer quarters than you have. This is your final warning – don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. You’re in over your head,” Bruce snarled, glaring venomously beneath his cowl.

“That may be so,” Kent evenly replied, “but I’ve _got_ to try. Someone in this unforgiving city needs to give a damn about these women, so it might as well be me.”

Bruce twitched, but the other man continued, “I’ll head back home for tonight – I know you’re probably wet and tired, so I won’t give you anything else to worry about – but I’m _not_ dropping this investigation. The people of Whitechapel deserve better.”

Bruce seethed quietly, but didn’t respond. He turned on his heel and left the yard in a few quick strides, ducking into an alley and grappling up to the roof in a few fluid motions. He turned around in time to see Kent rush out into the street, head whipping back and forth before critically eyeing the roofline. Bruce ducked down out of sight and waited for the reporter to leave, but he heard a quiet voice from below.

“You have a good night, Batman. Be safe getting home.”

Bruce didn’t breathe until the gentle echo of footsteps had completely vanished.

One minute, this infuriating man was staring down London’s most infamous vigilante, and the next he was wishing him safe travels – treating him like he was a _person_. The entire point of Batman was to be something untouchable, something clearly not right, not human. It intimidated the criminals the way it was supposed to, but it also made for very stilted and awkward interactions with regular citizens.

How long had it been, caped or otherwise, since someone had last given Bruce such genuine parting words? He didn’t think he could recall.

It was there, soaking wet, curled up on some random rooftop in Whitechapel, that Bruce Wayne, Duke of Gotham, realized he just might be in love.


	9. Dear Boss

_27 September_

_The Daily Telegraph_ ’s bullpen seemed more chaotic than usual today. Clark couldn’t decide what exactly made him think that, as he entered the office and hung his coat on the back of his chair, but the energy in the room was almost palpable.

Lois came up to Clark’s desk and set down a fresh cup of tea, grinning mischievously.

“Do I want to know?” Clark deadpanned, unthinkingly reaching for the beverage.

“Oh, it’s nothing big,” Lois assured him. “Another one of those ‘letters from the killer’ came in today, so the boys are having a bit of fun with it.”

Clark frowned. Ever since he began publishing articles about the Whitechapel Murderer, people from all over London had been sending in letters, all signing them under various pseudonyms that were obvious references to the killer. Clark knew they were all hoaxes (several had hinted at further atrocities that never came to pass), but he usually inspected each one all the same. He never appreciated people treating this like it was some kind of game, though. Women had died, and people were entertaining themselves by trying to rile everyone up about it. The whole thing was just awful.

Clark sighed and set his tea down, finding the largest cluster of people and effortlessly shoving his way to the center of the circle. He plucked the letter from Steve Lombard’s grasp, ignoring the man’s sputtered protests sprinkled with laughter, and quickly returned to his desk, smoothing the paper out and carefully looking it over.

The whole thing was written with red ink, in surprisingly neat script. There were no other marks or stains on the paper, and it was dated at the top right corner. 25 September, 1888.

_Dear Boss,_ it read.

_I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal._

_How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight._

_My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance._

_Good Luck._

_Yours truly_

_Jack the Ripper_

_Dont mind me giving the trade name. Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha_

Clark’s eyebrows knitted together. This was the first time he’d heard that pen name. And this letter had an awful lot of mistakes in it for such neat handwriting. He chewed on his lips, reading the letter again, and again, God knows how many times before a rolling murmur startled him from his thoughts. He looked up in time to see a familiar well-dressed figure slip into Mr. White’s office, and the murmurs stopped, quickly replaced with the usual clamor.

Clark couldn’t help but smile, thinking of his last outing with the duke. After the incident with the children, the two of them had strolled the grounds of Hyde Park for quite some time, talking about everything from poetry and novels to food and family, though Clark did most of the talking about the last point. The whole thing had given the duke so much more depth than Clark had expected. He couldn’t help but feel he’d been given a glimpse of what the noble was _really_ like – as though his usual behavior was just a front he was putting up. Why on earth he would conceal what a thoughtful, profound person he was, Clark had no idea, but he supposed that was just another of the man’s many eccentricities.

He stifled a dreamy sigh and regretfully returned his gaze to the letter in front of him. In theory, it was no different than any of the other prank letters they’d received, but something in Clark’s gut was telling him otherwise. He found that following that instinct had led to some big breakthroughs in previous investigations, so maybe it would be worth it to follow it one more time.

Decided, Clark rose from his desk and gathered up the letter, wading through his coworkers until he reached the editor’s office. He gave a sharp rap on the door frame and waited until a gruff “What” beckoned him in.

Sure enough, the Duke of Gotham was elegantly perched in one of the visitor’s chairs again, smiling when he saw Clark step in. Clark let himself give a brief grin in return before turning to the matter at hand, approaching his boss’s desk and giving him the letter.

Perry White looked it over and gave it a quick read before shooting Clark a blank look.

“And what exactly am I supposed to do with this? It’s another prank letter, Kent. Just toss it in the bin with the others,” he groused, nearly dropping the papers into the waste basket next to his desk.

“ _With_ all due respect,” Clark gasped, lunging forward and catching the letter before it fell in, “I disagree, sir. I think we should pass this along to Scotland Yard.”

White just raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Really. And what makes you so sure this is any more authentic than the hundreds of _other_ missives we’ve gotten?”

Clark paused, setting the papers on the edge of the desk before he sheepishly replied, “Instinct?”

His boss snorted. “Really kid? I know you’re a decent reporter, but I can’t hand something over to the police because one of my employees had a hunch.”

Clark smothered a huff of frustration. “ _You_ were the one who taught me to follow my gut! I haven’t steered you wrong yet, have I?”

White grumbled, but his response was cut off by a thoughtful hum. Both he and Clark turned to the duke, who had grabbed the letter at some point during their argument and was currently reading it, lips pursed in concentration. He didn’t seem to notice their stares, icy eyes roaming the page before moving it so he could read the next. In the moment of silence that followed, Clark had to bite his tongue to keep from gasping aloud.

He had seen many new sides of the duke during their outing two weeks ago, but this one was newer still. His perfectly arched brows were slightly furrowed, and eyes that were usually glazed with obliviousness were now sharp and focused. Every line of his handsome face was hard, his jaw clenched slightly. His posture was no longer relaxed and languid, but tense with anticipation. He looked as though he was ready to storm out of the room in a righteous fury.

Clark felt as though the silence stretched on endlessly, the duke’s face growing darker the more he read, but eventually, Mr. White cleared his throat, breaking the spell and causing the duke’s face to smooth out, almost instinctively relaxing. The noble smiled slightly and cheerfully remarked, “Whoever it is, they certainly sound like they mean businesses, hm?”

Mr. White sighed, but he leaned forward and asked, in complete seriousness, “What do _you_ think, your grace?”

“What do I think about what?” he replied, appearing genuinely baffled.

“The letter. Do you think Kent is right? Should I submit it to the police?” the editor patiently elaborated.

The noble hummed again, looking down at the papers in his lap for a long moment of consideration before his gaze slowly drifted to meet Clark’s eyes. The reporter flushed a bit, but he held his ground and didn’t break eye contact as the duke shared his thoughts.

“ _I_ think I have complete confidence in Mr. Kent here,” he asserted. “I’m willing to trust his instincts. If he thinks someone at the Yard should see this, then so do I.”

Clark tried to ignore the entirely unprofessional flutter in his chest as Mr. White grumbled some more, but acquiesced to the duke’s decision and took the letter back, setting it to the side of his desk and mumbling something about sending it out soon. Clark honestly didn’t hear anything after that – he was still pinned by the duke’s heated gaze, unable to bring himself to look away. He could hear his pulse thundering in his ears, and tried to subtly wipe his sweaty palms on his trousers.

Sadly, someone out in the bullpen was calling for him, so as much as he would have enjoyed standing here for the rest of the day, he knew he had work to finish. He took a deep breath and offered the duke a short bow.

“Thank you, your grace. I’ll try to ensure your trust isn’t misplaced.”

He rose in time to see the duke smile, small and soft, like he had at the park.

“Somehow I don’t think I’ll have to worry about that,” he gently remarked, smile turning into more of a smirk as Clark flushed again. The reporter gave a stuttered farewell and practically ran out of the office, slamming the door behind him. He retreated to his desk and buried his face in his hands, taking a moment to try and compose himself. He ignored Jimmy’s persistent cries and took a few deep breaths.

If Clark thought he was in trouble before, he was sorely mistaken. That was nothing. _This_ , on the other hand, was significantly worse.

Because last he checked, you weren’t supposed to fall in love with dukes when you were just a newspaper reporter.


	10. The Double Event

_30 September_

Bruce stifled a tired sigh and stretched his cramping leg. It was nearing one in the morning, and things had been fairly quiet. Usually, Bruce would consider it a blessing, but tonight, he couldn’t shake this feeling of dread that pooled in his stomach.

The night was mercifully dry, if a bit windy, but clouds still gathered in the skies above, dampening what little light the waning moon provided. The streets were dark, but the fog had only just begun to roll in from the Thames, giving Bruce one less thing to deal with as he conducted his nightly patrol.

He couldn’t stop thinking about that letter. _Dear Boss_. Something about the tone, the syntax, struck a chord with Bruce. It slotted neatly into the mental profile he’d begun composing for the killer – everything from the slope of the handwriting to the choice of ink. It wasn’t just Kent’s instinct he was trusting when he said they should pass it on to the police, it was his own as well.

Though he could admit it was comforting that he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

He’d been careful to transcribe the entire letter the instant he returned home and meticulously filed it away with the rest of the evidence for this case. Things were slowly coming together, and a vague picture of who he was looking for was starting to form, but he was still missing too much information to pin anything down for sure.

Well, that’s why he was still out here tonight, he supposed. Whitechapel hadn’t divulged all of its secrets just yet, and Bruce was well equipped to pry them loose.

He paused on the roof of the International Working Men's Educational Club, listening to the boisterous discussion with half an ear as he scanned the roads below. Someone inside hooted with laughter, causing Bruce to nearly miss a muffled sound from the alley.

Frowning, he made his way to the edge of the roof, peering into the yard below. It was too dark to see anything, but he thought he heard a quiet thump and an unsettling squishing sound.

The sound of a pony and cart in the street startled him, and Bruce turned away for just a moment to see someone attempting to pull into the alley so they could park in the yard. He watched as the horse came to a stop just at the edge of the yard, shying to the left and going no further.

The puzzled driver prodded at the unseen obstruction with his whip, but when it remained unmoved, he climbed down from his perch and struck a match in an attempt to inspect it. It was almost immediately blown out by the wind, but in the split second of light it provided, Bruce saw all he needed.

A woman, splayed out on her back, bleeding steadily from a gaping wound in her throat.

He cursed under his breath. As the driver entered the club by a side door in the alley, Bruce prepared to jump down into the yard to inspect her more closely, but another flicker of movement caught his attention.

No sooner did the driver disappear into the club, someone broke away from the wall surrounding the yard and took off towards Berner Street. Bruce had no doubt who it was, and wasted no time leaping to the next roof in pursuit.

He breathlessly followed the figure for several blocks, nearly losing them after they backtracked and took a few tight turns. It was almost as though they knew they were being followed…

Bruce pursed his lips, but shelved the notion for later consideration as he nearly missed a jump, falling short and barely grabbing the edge of the roof before hastily pulling himself up. He quickly found his mark again, slowly giving up on stealth in favor of moving faster from building to building. The pounding footfalls of the killer took a left ahead, so Bruce adjusted his course, but slowed when he realized the sound was gone. Had they stopped running?

Cautiously, Bruce peered over the edge of the roof, but he saw no sign of them in the street below. Where in damnation had they gone? In the distance, he thought he heard another horse and cart, but his frustration was too overwhelming for it to really register. He was _this close_. Where did they disappear to?

He took a moment to regain his bearings, absently noticing that he’d nearly chased them all the way into the city proper. The lighting was significantly better in this neighborhood, so Bruce could see people wandering along the sidewalks below. He huffed, but knew there was nothing else he could do right now. Resigned, he grappled to another building and began making his way home.

He slowed when he approached Mitre Street, which was unusually quiet, even for this time of night. He heard another horse take off, pulling its charge, before it faded into the distance. That uneasy feeling quickly returned, pushing Bruce to climb down to the street below.

A careful sweep of the road didn’t reveal much, but as he approached the turn into Mitre Square, he was overwhelmed by a familiar stench.

It felt as though time had slowed down. Bruce turned the corner and dropped his gaze to the cobblestone at his feet. His boot stepped into the edge of a growing pool of blood, slowly running from the mutilated body in front of him.

Another woman, skirts thrown up above her waist and throat slit, but they hadn’t stopped there this time. She was messily disemboweled, and her intestines were draped over her right shoulder and by her left arm.  Her cheeks had triangular flaps cut into each, pointing towards her sliced eyelids. Bruce swayed slightly on his feet, trying his best not to breathe too deeply.

He examined the scene in a daze, noting the important details in such a way that he was sure he’d remember them later, but they barely registered now. When he heard people approaching from the main road, he quickly grappled up to the nearest rooftop, nearly gasping as he ducked out of sight.

Bruce was no stranger to murder. He had seen some ghastly things in his lifetime – it began with his parents and continued nearly every night he put on the cowl. But this was different. This was malicious. This was meticulously planned. This was…this was…

Bruce had no words for it. It was on an entirely different level than anything he’d ever seen.

The savagery of the wounds hinted at a highly mentally unstable individual, but the precision of some of the wounds, the way specific organs were often removed, seemed to point to some kind of medical knowledge, or at least some familiarity with human anatomy. Regardless of their mental state, this person knew _exactly_ what they were doing. Though the two weren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, contrary to popular (and highly misinformed) belief, it still seemed an odd combination.

Bruce gave himself a moment to collect his scattered thoughts before forcing himself to stand. Down below, he heard a man cry, “For God’s sake mate, get over here! There’s another woman cut to pieces!" He listened to the sound of several people beginning to flood Mitre Square, and the buzz of their horrified whispers.

It was a long moment before Bruce got his legs to work again, crossing the rooftop and slowly beginning his trek back to Kensington. He suspected he wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight, or a long while yet.


	11. The Second Letter

_6 October_

Clark could hardly believe it. It had almost been a week, but it hardly felt like enough time to process. Two women were killed in one night, and based on post-mortems and the times they were found, the killer _had_ to have done it in under an hour. The whole thing was just baffling.

He shuffled the stack of papers on his desk and glanced at the cover sheet he’d made for each.

The first woman was Elizabeth Stride, known locally as “Long Liz.” She cleaned rooms in the lodging house at 32 Flower and Dean Street, where she spent most of her nights for the last six years. She often spent her earnings there at the pub, so she would sell herself on the streets to pay for her lodgings. She’d last been seen by a man named Israel Schwartz, who saw a woman matching Liz’s description in the gateway of Dutfield’s Yard being pulled into the street by a man in a dark overcoat and a workman’s hat. The man had spun her around and thrown her onto the footway, but she didn’t seem overly alarmed, so Schwartz assumed it was a domestic and moved on. As far as Clark knew, that was the last time Stride was seen alive.

The other woman was Catherine Eddowes. She’d been in an extended relationship with a man named Thomas Conway and had three children with him, but they never married and eventually split on account of her excessive drinking habits, forcing her to move into Cooney’s Lodging House at 55 Flower and Dean Street. Though everyone interviewed claimed otherwise, Clark had his suspicions that she also had to supplement her income with prostitution – he didn’t imagine she made enough money for lodgings from hawking and odd jobs alone. The night she was murdered, she’d been drunkenly imitating a fire engine outside number 29 Aldgate High Street before falling asleep in the road. A constable picked her up and took her to a cell to sober up, and by twelve fifteen, she was released. She was last sighted a little after one thirty in the company of a man, but the witness couldn’t describe him well enough to be of any use. Her post mortem revealed that her left kidney and uterus had been removed, and neither had been found near the body.

Clark frowned as he filed the papers away. Both women fit the profile for the murderer’s victims so far, so at least they were being consistent, Clark thought sardonically. He forced himself to put the matter aside as he grabbed the stack of mail that had been left for him on the corner of his desk, glancing quickly at each envelope as he sifted through them. He paused when he came to a postcard, which only bore the postmark LONDON E.

Curious, Clark flipped it over to further inspect it. He absently noted that it was dated 1 October and written in red ink, but he froze in shock when he began to read its contents.

_Dear Mister Kent,_

_I was not codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you'll hear about Saucy Jacky's work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn't finish straight off had not the time to get ears for police. thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again._

_Jack the Ripper_

The same ink color. The same pen name. It _had_ to be the same person who’d sent that letter last week. They were clearly familiar with its contents, and nobody outside _The Telegraph_ or Scotland Yard had seen that missive. It was penned in the same neat script, and just as fraught with errors.

He had to remind himself to breathe as he began to put the pieces together. It was written just after the deaths of Stride and Eddowes, so they couldn’t have seen many details about it in the papers. It specifically mentioned that he got interrupted during the first woman’s murder, which was an idea Clark had already been considering – Elizabeth Stride only had the neck wound, after all. Every other woman had been disemboweled as well, so it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that something had prevented the killer from finishing the job. Additionally, the first letter had mentioned clipping off the women’s ears, and Eddowes’ lobes _had_ been mutilated – another detail that hadn’t been released in the press before 1 October.

If Clark had any doubts before, they were now erased – this missive was written by the same person who wrote the _Dear Boss_ letter, and that person, this “Jack the Ripper” fellow, was the man who killed all four of these women.

As Clark carefully read it again, he noticed there were some stains on the postcard. Had they spilled ink as they were writing? He brought the card closer to his face and frowned in concentration. They weren’t the same vivid red as the ink, so it wasn’t that. They were much darker than that – so dark red they were almost brown…

Clark nearly dropped the card as he realized they must have been bloodstains. As it was, he slowly set it down on his desk and took a deep breath. He noticed his hands were shaking, but whether it was out of fear or excitement, he honestly couldn’t say. On one hand, it was a little horrifying to have the attention of London’s most prolific serial killer, but on the other, Clark was one step closer to finding out who they were. Attention was good. If being a reporter had taught Clark anything, it was that you didn’t get attention if you weren’t on to something.

“Wow, you’re certainly popular, aren’t you?”

Clark shrieked as someone spoke right into his ear, spinning in his chair and only barely stopping himself from swinging at the source, which turned out to be an extremely surprised duke, eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline as he leaned away from Clark.

“Apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said warily, adjusting the black coat that hung over his grey trousers and patterned waistcoat.

Clark flushed bright red and ducked his head. “No no, I’m sorry. I was just…lost in thought. You didn’t do anything wrong, your grace.”

He didn’t dare look up to see the man’s expression, but Clark did hear a skeptical hum and a rustling of fabric. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a heady cologne, and he yelped when he realized the duke had leaned in, looking at something over Clark’s shoulder, but in such close proximity that Clark could kiss his cheek if he turned his head just a bit to the left…

Fortunately, that horrible idea was nipped in the bud when the duke sharply inhaled and leaned away, holding the postcard and reading it intently, dark brows furrowed.

“Isn’t this the same pen name as that letter you brought to White last week?” he asked, flipping the card to look at the front.

Clark wasn’t sure what was more surprising, the fact that the seemingly scatterbrained duke had remembered such a detail, or the concern that currently marred his handsome face. He collected himself enough to reply, “It is, your grace. I believe this letter is from the same person.” He hesitated a moment before lowering his voice and leaning closer, gratified when the duke subconsciously leaned in as well. “I also think the person who sent them may be the killer I’ve been looking for,” he admitted.

The noble’s eyes flashed with some emotion Clark couldn’t put a name to, but it was gone in an instant as his brows shot up again. “You don’t seem very perturbed for someone who is receiving correspondence from a murderer,” he observed lightly.

“I suppose not,” Clark replied, adjusting his glasses out of habit. “It is…alarming, I can admit, but it’s such an important sign of progress that I can’t find it in myself to be too frightened right now.”

“Progress? You receive a personally addressed letter from a man who probably wants to kill you and you call it progress?” the duke asked incredulously.

Clark just smiled. “Yes, your grace. Reporters don’t receive personally addressed letters from men who want to kill them unless those men feel threatened. If he’s sending me letters, I’m closing in on him, and he’s nervous enough to try and scare me off.”

“That…sounds reasonable,” the duke reluctantly agreed, “but still worrisome.”

Clark felt something warm and traitorous swell in his chest. He tried to crush it as he reassured the noble. “I appreciate your concern, your grace, but I’ll be fine. This isn’t the first time this has happened, I doubt it will be the last, and I know I’ll be safe once I catch this man and put him away for good.”

The duke frowned, slowly setting the postcard back on Clark’s desk and leaning on the scratched oak surface so he was breathing the same air as the increasingly nervous reporter.

“I’m not just concerned, Clark, I am _deeply_ concerned.” He gasped at the duke’s use of his given name, but the noble continued as though he hadn’t just shaken Clark to his core. “This man has not just murdered four women, he’s _butchered_ them. He isn’t just out to kill. He’s malicious and sadistic, and he knows how to make your death _painful_. I understand why you have his attention, and I understand why you appreciate it on some odd level, but _I_ do not appreciate it. You are in serious danger, Clark. You’ve _got_ to stop now, before you’re really in over your head.”

Though his words were harsh, his pale blue eyes were soft with genuine concern. Clark wanted to respond, but found he couldn’t speak around the lump in his throat. In a fit of daring, he took the duke’s free hand in both of his and rubbed circles into it with his thumb.

“My deepest regrets, your grace, but I can’t stop here. The people of London deserve to feel safe at night, and if I have to put myself in the line of fire to ensure that, then so be it. I knew what I was getting into when I took on this story, and I’m going to see it through to the end.” He ended the declaration with a brief kiss to the noble’s smooth knuckles, flushing all the while.

When he finally dared to look into the duke’s eyes, he was startled by the light dusting of pink high on the man’s cheekbones. The hand he held twitched, instinctively tightening its grip before slowly withdrawing, coming to rest on Clark’s forehead, where it carefully brushed back his bangs. He held his breath as the duke leaned in and his lips whispered across Clark’s temple as he murmured, “You _are_ quite noble, aren’t you, Clark? Then I suppose all I can do is implore you proceed with caution. London is a dangerous city, and I’d hate to see you become another victim of its indifference.”

With that, the duke straightened out and stepped back, prompting Clark to finally draw a ragged breath. The man smirked as he spun on his heel, leaving the _Telegraph_ ’s bullpen with a casual “Good afternoon, Mr. Kent” tossed over his shoulder.

Clark felt his blush crawl under the collar of his shirt. He was spurred into action when he caught Lois smirking at him from across the room, quickly turning back to the mess on his desk and putting all the letters away, tucking the new postcard into the front of his file on the Whitechapel case.

If this Jack the Ripper didn’t kill him, he thought with an edge of hysteria, the duke certainly would.


	12. On Murder and Love

_11 October_

The rain was pounding against the roof of Bruce’s home tonight. He had decided against going out on patrol (to Alfred’s enormous relief) and had instead barricaded himself in his study for the evening. Sketches, newspaper clippings, handwritten notes, and typed missives were scattered about the room, covering nearly every flat surface. The fire in the hearth illuminated the closest stacks, while the wall lamps reached the parts of the room the fire could not. Bruce was making careful circuits around the room, from one piece of paper to the next, and reviewing everything he had amassed so far.

The papers had begun calling the murderer “Jack the Ripper” after Scotland Yard publically released the “Dear Boss” letter. It was a little over the top, and probably gave the killer exactly the kind of attention and fear he was looking for, but it _was_ a little easier to have some kind of name to put to the man – at least all of the publications could call him the same thing, instead of wildly vacillating between "Red Fiend," "The Whitechapel Murderer," and "Leather Apron."

Bruce frowned as he paused at the copy of the postcard Kent had received last week – the missive that had convinced him that Jack the Ripper was indeed the identity of the murderer. He’d nearly choked when he’d seen that on the reporter’s desk. It was bad enough that the Ripper was targeting the working women who didn’t deserve this kind of attention, but for the headstrong (admittedly handsome) reporter to be brought into this mess as well? Bruce may or may not have dropped his irresponsible façade in a last-ditch attempt to ward Kent off. It hadn’t worked, of course, but at least he could say he tried.

He glared as he realized where his thoughts had gone. He was _trying_ to piece together a case, and here he was thinking about that damn reporter again. He scrubbed a hand down his face before raking it back through his hair. His focus was shot.

He was in the midst of grumbling when Alfred let himself into the room, expertly balancing a tray of tea and pastries. Bruce subconsciously cleared a space for him on the table next to his chair, allowing the butler to set the tray down and begin pouring a fresh cup.

“Something troubling you, sir?” he inquired, raising a brow.

Bruce sighed heavily. “Not overly so. I’m just...having difficulties focusing on this.”

“It has been a strenuous case, your grace. Taking a break now and again is necessary,” the butler assured his charge.

“I’m just missing one piece, Alfred. I’ve got a good idea of who I’m looking for, but I still can’t put a name to them just yet,” Bruce grumbled. He walked over to a piece of paper back near the bookcases and his hands began gesticulating as he explained.

“Whoever it is, they’re certainly male. He exclusively targets prostitutes with a penchant for drinking, implying that his wife or mother had a similar background. He still harbors resentment about how he was treated by this woman, so he’s taking it out on others.”

He turned and picked up a different pamphlet.

“He isn’t just mutilating these women out of anger or spite, though. He believes these women are somehow reprehensible in life, so he tries to make them into something beautiful in death – his definition of beautiful, anyways.” He frowned, setting the paper down again and storming to another part of the room, closer to his desk. “He is clearly afflicted with some level of mental instability, but seeing as he isn’t institutionalized, he either has no family, or his psychosis isn’t readily apparent in daily life.”

He leaned over a diagram. “His knowledge of the human body would indicate some level of education, but the way he haunts Whitechapel seems to indicate that he lives in or around the area in a lower-income neighborhood. Perhaps he was living a better life, once – had an inheritance and a reputable job, a fiancé – but something went wrong. There was some kind of tragedy. He lost it all – family, job, money, wife. He starts to unravel. Finds solace in imagining his revenge, but imagining is only satisfying for so long. He finally decides to take out his rage on Mary Nichols, but it’s not enough, so he returns again and again. He’s enjoying it too much now to stop.”

Alfred frowned thoughtfully. “That sounds like a rather complete profile, m’lord.”

“And yet it’s not enough,” Bruce growled, taking his cup of tea from the tray. “I’ve narrowed it down, but I still can’t pin any one man down as the culprit.”

“To be fair sir,” the butler drawled, “you _have_ been rather…distracted, as of late.”

Bruce glanced up from his cup, genuinely confused. “Distracted?”

Alfred’s face seemed as impassive as ever, but Bruce has known him long enough to recognize the quirk of his lips. “You’ve been spending quite a bit of time at _The Daily Telegraph_ , your grace. Simply checking on your investment, I’m sure. Though it doesn’t hurt that there’s a certain reporter generally about, does it?”

Bruce bit the inside of his cheek in an attempt to quell a flush. “I spend most of my time at _The Telegraph_ in White’s office. Any conversation with Kent is purely an attempt to see if he’s picked up anything new on the Ripper case,” he replied testily.

“Of course, sir,” the butler easily agreed. “I wouldn’t _dream_ of implying otherwise.”

Bruce contained his grumbling as Alfred turned to leave. He opened the door and hesitated a moment, keeping his back to the room.

“It wouldn’t be such an awful thing if you _were_ there to see Mr. Kent, Bruce. That boy is good for you, I can tell,” he murmured gently. He stepped out and closed the door before Bruce could respond, but he honestly wasn’t sure what he would have said even if he had the chance.

It was one thing to admit Kent was attractive. He had eyes, thank you very much, and he wasn’t _dead_. Kent was _extremely_ attractive, from a purely objective standpoint. It was another thing to admit he enjoyed the reporter’s company. Again, objectively, one could say he was charming, had a sense of humor, and a surprising amount of backbone for someone whose wardrobe seemed entirely comprised of tweed. Anyone who interacted with the man would agree with Bruce.

But to admit that perhaps there was more to it? To admit that there were times he wanted to trace the man’s cheeks with his fingertips, or find out if his lips were as soft as they looked? That was another matter entirely.

Bruce was forced to confront his previous thoughts from a few weeks ago, when he’d been having a similar crisis on the rooftops of Whitechapel after the Bat cornered the reporter and found out exactly how much backbone he had. At the time, there had been other things to attend to (like _not_ sitting in the rain like a complete twat), but here, in the quiet, secluded comfort of his home, Bruce didn’t have the luxury of ignoring it any longer.

His heart clenched uncomfortably in his chest as he remembered the warmth of Clark’s hands holding his own. The soft brush of his lips against Bruce’s knuckles. The unfathomable depth of his eyes as they held Bruce’s captive. The surprising silkiness of his hair when Bruce ran his hand through it.

The duke sighed and sank into his chair by the fire, setting aside his cooling tea. He propped his chin on his fist and stared pensively at the flames, ruminating in silence. Slowly, his gaze was drawn to the portrait above the mantel. His parents’ gentle smiles and soft gaze met his own. Bruce tried to swallow the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat.

“What would _you_ tell me to do?” he quietly implored, slowly rising from the chair and moving to stand in front of the portrait. He gingerly reached out and brushed his fingertips along the gilded frame, following the motion with his eyes.

“I know the only reason I began all of this – my mission, my training – was because of what happened to you. Was because I had to watch as the both of you were shot in some filthy London backstreet and bled out on the cobblestones. And I always wondered…” he paused to take a steadying breath. “I always wondered if I was doing the right thing. Would you be proud of the work I’ve done? Would you be disappointed in the path I’ve chosen? Alfred, bless him, has always assured me that nothing I did would make you two love me any less, but I can’t help but wonder…”

He looked up again, meeting the pair of painted gazes. “What would you tell me to do now? I…I love Clark Kent. I truly think I do. But to love him, to involve him in my life, would mean putting him in danger. So isn’t it selfish to want him? Despite knowing the peril he would be in? Am I…am I allowed to have that kind of happiness? Or should I do the selfless thing and let him go? Keep him safe by keeping him at arm’s length?” Bruce’s face crumpled and he withdrew his hand from the painting.

“Please…Mother, Father. I don’t know what to do,” he whispered helplessly, collapsing to his knees. He fisted the material of his trousers in both hands, gripping it so tightly he could hear the seams creaking. His chest was so constricted, he had difficulty drawing breath.

If this was love, he thought bitterly, perhaps he was better off without it after all.


	13. From Hell

_16 October_

Clark carefully adjusted his shoulder bag as he approached the line of squat brick houses, squinting into the sunset. He knew he was a bit early for his appointment, but considering how difficult it had been to secure this interview, he saw no harm in ensuring he got the most out of it. George Lusk was a popular man these days.

The businessman hadn’t been particularly important in the past – just another relatively successful builder going about his life in London, not unlike many others – but that was before he formed the Mile End Vigilance Committee. About a month ago, the organization began putting out posters in Whitechapel, asking residents for information. Lusk, as the founder and head of the group, was on every single one, and had also encouraged considerable press coverage, speaking with any newspaper that would have him. As a result, there was hardly a person in London who didn’t know Lusk’s name these days.

Clark knew better than to hope for new information on the Ripper – this was just a neighborhood effort, after all – but he was looking forward to meeting the man who would care enough about his community to raise the funds for nightly patrols of unemployed men, among other measures taken by the committee.

He approached one of the porches and checked the scrap of paper he’d written the address on. Confident he was at the right home, Clark rapped sharply on the front door. Shortly after, it swung open, revealing a serene woman with hair greying at the temples.

“You’re Mr. Kent, then?” she gently inquired.

“Yes ma’am, from _The Daily Telegraph_. I know I’ve arrived early, but if Mr. Lusk is available…”

“Of course,” she interrupted, smiling softly. “Come this way.”

Clark stepped in and she closed the door behind him before guiding him deeper into the house, up a stairwell, and into what was presumably George Lusk’s study. The middle-aged man was seated at his desk, going through a stack of letters and stroking his mustache thoughtfully. He looked up when Clark and his companion entered, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

“And who is this, Susannah?” he asked.

“The reporter from _The Telegraph_ , dear,” she replied, offering Clark a chair. “Should I have the maid bring up some tea for you two?”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you, love.” He gave her a small smile as she nodded and left, then turned his attention to Clark, rising from his chair to offer his hand.

“You must be Clark Kent then. Pleasure to meet you,” he said.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Clark assured him, clasping the proffered hand. “I hope you don’t mind if we get started right away?”

“Not at all,” Lusk confirmed, pausing a moment as the maid bustled in with a tea tray and poured a cup for each of them before taking her leave. Lusk scooped some sugar into his beverage and stirred it in as he continued, “It would delight me to answer any questions you might have, Mr. Kent.”

Clark nodded gratefully, settling into a chair to pull out his notebook and press his pencil to the paper. “To get the obvious question out of the way, why did you form the Mile End Vigilance Committee?”

Lusk dropped back into his seat, moving most of the letters aside. “On a professional level, it would be difficult to encourage people to move into Whitechapel when a murderer is on the loose. No people means no new homes need to be built, which is bad for business.” He pursed his lips and leaned back, eyes softening.

“On a personal level, I feel the police aren’t doing everything they can to catch this man, and my family deserves to feel safe in their own home. It was bad enough when Scotland Yard was in charge of the whole thing, but with the death of Ms. Eddowes in the city proper, the City Police have gotten involved as well, and each one seems to consistently interfere with the other’s investigation, intentionally or otherwise. It’s an embarrassment, and it’s wasting precious time they could be using to catch the Ripper.”

Clark grimaced. Lusk wasn’t wrong. There seemed to be some kind of tension between the Yard and the City Police, and the last time Clark had gone to visit Inspector Gordon, the man wouldn’t stop grumbling about the “pompous, fluff-headed windbags” that “wouldn’t know a genuine confession if it bit them in the arse.”

“That does seem to be an issue,” Clark agreed, taking notes as he spoke. “Have you experienced any difficulties with this endeavor?”

“Well, none that would inconvenience the committee,” Lusk hedged. Clark waited patiently as the businessman seemed to struggle to gather his thoughts. “I have received some…unwanted attention since I formed the group.”

“Unwanted attention?”

“Nothing openly hostile,” Lusk admitted, “but plenty unnerving. Some unsavory-looking fellows have been asking after me at the local taverns, trying to speak to me in private. I receive numerous letters in the post trying to play like they’re the murderer. I’m sure the papers have the same problem.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe…” Clark mumbled, but before Lusk could ask, he continued, “Do you have any of the letters still?”

“I toss most of them, but I’m sure I’ve gotten one today, if you’d like to see.” Lusk plucked a package from the top of the stack on his desk, handing it over to Clark.

He carefully accepted the inconspicuous-looking parcel, turning it over to look for a postmark. It was clearly addressed to George Lusk, but the postmark was indistinct. Clark could only make out that it was from London.

Frowning, he pulled off the brown paper and opened the simple wooden box within. He was almost instantly overwhelmed with a rotting stench, nearly dropping the package in disgust. Holding his breath, he tilted the box and peered in.

There was a lump of…something nestled in the middle, just next to a messily-folded letter. The lump could only be some kind of flesh, but Clark was loathe to find out what kind. He instead opted to pluck out the paper, unfolding it and reading the contents.

_From hell_

_Mr Lusk_

_Sor_

_I send you half the Kidne I took from one women prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer_

_signed Catch me when you Can_

_Mishter Lusk_

Clark almost gasped, but quickly remembered the stench and slowly set the box on the floor at his feet.

“Mr. Lusk, I think you may want to see this one,” he said, offering the businessman the letter. He watched as Lusk’s eyes trailed over the sloppy lettering and his face grew pale. He set the paper down with shaking hands.

“Mr. Lusk? Are you okay?” Clark asked, brow pinching with concern.

“I…I did keep one postcard. It came in just a few days ago. It…I can’t say why, but it struck a chord…” he trailed off and began rummaging his desk. “I swear to you, this handwriting looks the same as that card…”

He went quiet for a moment, sifting through drawers until he produced it, offering it to Clark. Sure enough, the penmanship was the same as the letter that sat on the desk now.

The postcard read:

_Say Boss_

_You seem rare frightened, guess I'd like to give you fits, but can't stop time enough to let your box of toys play copper games with me, but hope to see you when I don't hurry much_

_Bye Bye Boss_

Clark bit his lip. It was the same form of address as the first Ripper letter. It _could_ just be because the “Dear Boss” letter had been released to the public, but…

“Dear God, did they really send me her kidney?!”

Clark’s head shot up in time to see Luck grow paler, leaning over his desk in an attempt to see the box at the reporter’s feet. He carefully closed the foul parcel and lifted it into his lap.

“Mr. Lusk, if you don’t mind, I think we ought to get a physician to take a look at this. I’m not experienced enough to say _what_ this is, but in the event the Ripper is truly the sender, I think it would be worthwhile to take a look at his souvenir,” Clark carefully explained. Lusk seemed shaken, but he nodded his agreement, rising from his chair and bustling downstairs, Clark on his heels.

He shrugged on a jacket at the front door, hollering to his wife that they’d be back soon, and guided Clark out into the streets of Whitechapel. The sun had long since set, and the waxing moon cast an eerie light over the foggy streets, lengthening the shadows and creating a distinctly sinister air in the quiet of the night.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t have to go far – just a few blocks down, Lusk stopped at the practice of Dr. Frederick Wiles **.** He opened the door, ignoring the cheerful jingle of the bell and approaching the front desk, where a young man looked up from his novel.

“Is Dr. Wiles in?” Lusk asked impatiently.

“I’m afraid not,” the young man replied, setting the book down. “I’m his assistant, Dr. Reed. Can I help you?”

Clark stepped forward, offering the box. “Mr. Lusk here received this in the post. We’re fairly certain it’s a kidney, but we can’t say if it’s human or not. Could you inspect it for us?”

“Of course,” Dr. Reed assured them, taking the box and gesturing for them to follow him. He went further into the building, taking them a few rooms back where the surgical tools were kept. He set the box down on an operating table and carefully prodded at the contents, occasionally consulting a worn book he plucked from a nearby shelf. He made a few considering noises, pinching his lips. After a few minutes of this, he reluctantly met the anxious gazes of Clark and Mr. Lusk.

“As much as I wish I could inform you otherwise, I’m afraid this kidney is very human. There’s no mistaking it,” he informed them. “There is a possibility it was sent by a medical school student – they do enjoy the occasional prank with parts from the cadavers – but this kidney doesn’t appear as though any professional preservatives were used. It’s far too decomposed.”

Lusk looked as though he was ready to collapse. “My God, it’s really the kidney from Eddowes. The entire thing was missing, and I’ve got half of it in the post…”

“Mr. Lusk, please calm down,” Clark firmly pleaded, grabbing Lusk by the shoulders. “We still don’t know enough to say that. Please don’t fret.”

“I would suggest seeking a second opinion,” Dr. Reed agreed. “This office is hardly the most sophisticated in London, and I haven’t my own practice yet, so you’ll want to take this to someone more experienced.”

“Of course…” Lusk faintly agreed, grabbing the box in a daze and shakily making his way to the door.

Clark quickly thanked Dr. Reed for his time and caught up with Lusk, joining him on the sidewalk out front.

“Mr. Lusk, when you get the chance, you should probably take it to the London Hospital – the city’s best and brightest practice there, they’ll be able to help,” Clark urged.

“Yes, yes, I shall,” Lusk agreed. He took a deep breath and turned to Clark, offering his hand. “Thank you for your assistance this evening, Mr. Kent. I’ll be sure to contact you with the results.”

Clark smiled and gave him a firm handshake. “I would appreciate it, sir. Take care.”

“Take care,” Lusk echoed, releasing Clark’s hand and turning to go home, vanishing into the thickening fog.

Clark took a deep, shaky breath of his own and stared up at the sky. For Mr. Lusk’s sake, he hoped the doctors didn’t find anything to indicate the kidney was Catherine Eddowes’, but for the sake of his investigation, he quietly hoped it was. This could be an enormous breakthrough after _weeks_ with no new information, and an important (if disturbing) glimpse into the psyche of Jack the Ripper.

In the still night, Clark could admit to himself that he wanted the killer caught for a myriad of reasons. Some were honorable – he _was_ genuinely upset and wanted Whitechapel to be safe again – but he could also admit some were less so.

It was, after all, quite difficult to consider how to woo a noble when he was forced to dedicate most of his brainpower to hunting a murderer.


	14. The Growing Madness

_17 October_

“We’ve arrived, sir.”

“Thank you, Edwin. I’ll return shortly.”

Bruce stepped out of the carriage and sauntered into _The Daily Telegraph_. He gave the receptionist a nod as he breezed through to the newsroom, quirking his lips at the familiar ruckus. He wasted no time, letting his feet carry him to a set of tweed-clad shoulders hunched over a desk. He debated with himself for a moment, but smothered his mischievous streak and opted to stand an arm’s length away when he finally said, “Do you just live here, Kent? Save yourself the commute? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you outside this building unless I’ve made you leave.”

“Oh, I go out for sustenance once in awhile, but not terribly often,” the reporter replied, his tone deathly serious despite the small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. He set down his pen and turned in his chair. “What brings you to _The Telegraph_ this fine day, your grace?”

Bruce hummed and pretended to carefully consider something, brushing imaginary lint off his dark grey coat and trousers. “Well, I happen to have a mercifully clear schedule this afternoon, and I always appreciate a good constitutional. If you aren’t occupied, perhaps you could join me?”

Clark’s smile widened into a grin as he playfully turned to consult a pocketbook on his desk. “Well, your grace, I have an appointment with George Lusk at three, but nothing besides.”

“Lusk?” Bruce couldn’t help but ask. “That fellow from the Whitechapel Committee?”

“The very same,” Clark confirmed. His gaze darted about in a very telling way that urged Bruce to lean closer, to hang on to every word that fell from his lips.

“He received a disturbing package last night while I was interviewing him.” Clark confessed. “I have good reason to believe it was from the Ripper, but I won’t know for sure until I see him today.”

Bruce’s breath hitched. This was an unexpected development. He’d been keeping careful tabs on Lusk since he overheard the forming of the Mile End Vigilance Committee, but he didn’t expect anything to come of it – they were doing good work, but they were no threat to the Ripper. However, for _completely_ impartial reasons, Bruce was inclined to believe Clark’s suspicions, so he carefully leaned back and adjusted his blue silk puff tie.

“Well that sounds exciting,” he remarked, trying to maintain an air of only mild interest. “I don’t suppose you’d mind terribly if I joined you?”

Clark blinked a few times uncomprehendingly. “Are you sure, your grace? The package is…well…rather gristly,” he admitted.

With considerable effort, Bruce blandly replied, “I’m quite sure I’ve seen worse, Kent.”

The reporter paled as his words sank in. “I’m so sorry your grace, I didn’t mean….”

“I know you didn’t,” Bruce assured him. “It’s a bit refreshing when people forget, truthfully. I’ve grown quite tired of skittish people afraid of offending my delicate sensibilities,” he drawled.

Clark’s gaze softened and a gentle smile pulled at the corners of his lips, so Bruce counted it as a victory. “I’m sure,” he easily agreed, rising from his chair and pulling on his jacket. “Very well then. What will we do until then?”

Bruce smiled, tilting his top hat. “I have a few ideas.”

He would sooner die than admit it, but Bruce had this afternoon planned to the minute. First he whisked Clark to a nearby café, where they chatted over tea and biscuits about everything from novels and plays to whether or not the Queen had secret lovers (Clark was adamant that she loved Prince Albert too much, and was far too old besides – Bruce had his doubts). After that, they returned to Hyde Park, settling on a bench to watch the swans in the lake. Occasionally, a pedestrian would wander too close, prompting one of the birds to chase them off in a flurry of squawking feathers. Though the display was always amusing, Bruce was often distracted by Clark’s clear, bright laughter, by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled and the scrunching of his nose that would make his glasses shift.

Before he knew it, Bruce noticed they had to go to Whitechapel to ensure Clark was on time to meet George Lusk. He was reluctant, but he knew his selfish desires had to be put aside – the Ripper would wait for nobody, and the sooner Bruce could corner him, the better.

With that, he herded Clark back to his carriage and gave Edwin the address. He tried to pay attention to where they were going so he could retrace his steps on patrol tonight, but found it difficult to look away from the handsome face seated across from him, looking out the window with a soft, content smile.

If he were a weaker man, he would gladly instruct Edwin to take them in circles so he could continue to unabashedly stare, but unfortunately, Bruce held himself to a higher standard than that, so it was only a short while later that the carriage slowed to a stop. The two men climbed out and Bruce instructed the driver to wait for them there while Clark knocked on the heavy wood door. After a brief pause, it was opened.

 “Ah, Mr. Kent, good to see you. Come in, please.”

Clark smiled at the woman who answered the door – Lusk’s wife, presumably – and bid her good afternoon. Her eyes widened when Bruce stepped through, but she composed herself quickly and offered him a curtsey.

“Your grace. We weren’t expecting such esteemed company.”

“I’m afraid I invited myself along. I hope it won’t be a hardship.”

“Not at all, your grace,” she assured him. “My husband is waiting in his study. This way, please.”

Mrs. Lusk guided them along, though Clark seemed to know the way already, walking by her side and carrying a hushed conversation with her. Bruce took in the smaller details of the businessman’s home – the painted vases resting on squat tables, the warm maroon wallpaper, the plush rugs in the adjacent rooms, the creaky steps in the narrow stairwell. Eventually, they reached their destination, and Bruce was guided into a room cluttered with piles of books and loose papers. The frazzled master of the house nearly jumped out of his chair, rushing to shake Clark’s hand and furtively whispering to him before he finally noticed Bruce.

“Your grace!” he squeaked, flushing slightly as he cleared his throat. With a bit more composure, he continued, “It is an honor to host you in my home. Do you require anything?”

“Oh no, I only joined Mr. Kent here when I heard you had received correspondence from the most famous man in London,” Bruce jested, settling in one of the chairs across from the desk.

Lusk paled a bit, but he pursed his lips and said nothing else. Instead, he motioned for Clark to sit as well before taking his own seat and producing a plain wooden box. He slid it to the corner of his desk and pulled a stack of folded papers from a different drawer.

“I requested Dr. Openshaw give me his own notes, so I wouldn’t misname any of his diagnoses,” he explained, flattening the papers and placing a pair of spectacles on his nose.

“He included a lot of medical rot, but these are the key points he stressed: the kidney is human, from a woman about forty-five years of age. Whoever she was, she suffered from Bright’s Disease, in which the kidneys fail as a result of heavy drinking. The kidney itself was preserved in spirits, but he estimated that it had been taken from the body within the last 3 weeks.”

A weighted silence fell on the room as Lusk set the papers down and removed his spectacles with shaking hands. Even as Bruce was putting it together in his head, Clark was slowly talking himself through it.

“Catherine Eddowes was the victim missing a kidney,” he intoned with a kind of growing horror. “She was forty-six at the time of her murder, not three weeks ago, and was well-known for being fond of her drink.”

“If this is a coincidence, it would have to be uncanny indeed,” Lusk lamented, casting a fearful eye on the box sitting innocuously on the corner of his desk.

Bruce fought to keep his face neutral as he leaned forward and rested his fingertips on the lid. “Would you mind if I had a look?”

“If you truly wish,” Lusk replied gravely.

With great care, Bruce lifted the box into his lap and opened it, face unconsciously hardening at the contents. He took a measured whiff of the pungent aroma, giving him a gag-inducing stench of decay and just a hint of aged grapes.

‘ _Preserved in wine then…’_ he thought, lifting the package to eye level. True to Openshaw’s word, the blood vessels showed inflammation characteristic of Bright’s Disease. The organ itself was smaller than a healthy kidney, and the surface was almost granular. At the very least, Openshaw wasn’t a quack – this kidney certainly came from someone afflicted with Bright’s.

He closed the lid and set the box on the desk, trying to look casual as he crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. “Was there a letter enclosed with this?” he asked.

“Ah, yes, here. Was part of a set...” Lusk murmured distractedly, grabbing a couple postcards and thrusting them at Bruce. The duke took them and carefully looked over the older of the two, frowning at the familiar opening. He inspected the card front to back before discarding it and looking over the follow-up missive. His brows furrowed as he noted the degraded grammar and spelling. The Ripper’s letters always had some errors, but Bruce had suspected they were intentional – a way to make the Ripper seem less educated and throw the Yard off his trail. But this “ _From hell”_ letter was horrendous. The penmanship, while undoubtedly the same as previous letters, was sloppy in the extreme, and the sheer amount of errors made this postcard a difficult read. Which either meant the Ripper was in a rush when he wrote this, or Bruce’s fears were bearing fruit.

The Ripper’s mental condition was worsening.

However educated he may have once been, his insanity was beginning to cloud his mind. His kills were getting messier, more intricate. He was sending threatening letters to anyone who so much as looked at him sideways. For God’s sake, if this missive was to be trusted, he was stooping to cannibalism now!

Bruce frowned again. This was getting critical. Whoever the Ripper chose to kill next, it was going to be ghastly. He _had_ to find this madman before it came to that.

“ – ce? Your grace?”

Bruce’s head snapped toward the sound, causing Clark to flinch away in surprise. Realizing his error, Bruce quickly organized his features into something a little less thunderous and a little more concerned.

“Apologies. Got lost in my own head,” he admitted before turning to the room’s other occupant. “I’m so sorry you’ve been experiencing such troubles, Mr. Lusk.”

“Well, I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise,” the businessman sighed. “My likeness is posted all over Whitechapel. It draws attention – one should be prepared for the occasions where it proves to be negative.”

“Just so,” Bruce agreed. He reluctantly handed back the postcards while Clark rose from his chair to give Lusk a firm handshake.

“Thank you for sharing this with me, Mr. Lusk. I really appreciate it. I’d suggest speaking with the Yard and seeing if you can’t get a constable posted outside for awhile,” Clark suggested.

“’Tis my next order of business, my friend,” Lusk assured him. He turned to Bruce and gave him a deep bow. “Your grace. I hope you have a pleasant evening. Shall I escort you both out?”

“That’s not necessary,” Bruce easily replied, offering a courteous nod. “Mr. Kent seems to remember well enough for the both of us,” he explained, giving Clark a small smirk that had the reporter lightly blushing.

He coughed and mumbled, “Quite,” before offering Lusk a curt bow and making his way out of the study, Bruce close behind. They said nothing to each other as they left, bidding Mrs. Lusk good evening and stepping out into the crisp autumn air. They share a moment of contemplative silence there on the sidewalk, listening to horses clatter across cobblestones and people singing obnoxiously in the pub a few streets away.

Eventually, Clark hesitantly speaks up, asking, “Are you alright, your grace?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well…” he trails off uncertainly, staring at his feet. At Bruce’s raised brow, he explains, “You seemed…disturbed. When you were looking at the package. I…I just hope I didn’t cause you unnecessary distress…”

“Oh, none of that,” Bruce insisted. He reached out and rested his fingertips just under Clark’s chin, gently tilting his face up so Bruce could look him in the eye. “In case you’ve already forgotten, you gave me ample warning, and that was _after_ I invited myself along. I’m perfectly fine, so I’ll not listen to a word of this nonsense.”

Clark’s shocked face slowly melted into something Bruce almost dared to call affection. His eyes were suffused with warmth, and he had the softest smile Bruce had ever seen. His gaze lingered on the reporter’s lips, causing him to wet his own almost unconsciously. It wouldn’t be completely horrible if he just ran his thumb over them, would it? If he just pressed his own lips to them…

It wasn’t until Clark swallowed that Bruce realized he hadn’t released his chin. He nearly snatched his hand back, but in a remarkable display of maturity, he managed to retract it at a much slower pace, immediately stuffing the traitorous limb into his pocket.

“Well, I’d ask where you live so I could take you home, but I believe we’ve already established that you never leave _The Telegraph_ , so I suppose I should just return you, yes?” he blustered, trying (and, he suspected, failing) to regain his composure.

Clark didn’t look much better. A flush now sat high on his cheekbones, and he only blinked owlishly behind his glasses before Bruce’s words finally seemed to register, bringing another smile to those dangerous lips.

“Astute observation, your grace. That would suit me just fine.”

“Go on then. I’ll just have a quick word with Edwin,” Bruce said, shooing Clark into the carriage. The instant he was inside, Bruce closed the door behind him, letting out a gusting breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He blamed Alfred entirely. Putting notions like _attraction_ and _love_ in his head. It was all well and good to admit it to a painting in the dead of night, but to allow himself to behave like this in public…

_‘Pull yourself together Wayne. You’ll be no good to him if you’ve got your head in the clouds,’_ he reprimanded. With a frustrated huff, he turned to Edwin and instructed him to return to _The Daily Telegraph_. Then, with a deep, fortifying breath, he opened the carriage and climbed in.


	15. Newfound Resolve

_24 October_

Clark sighed for the tenth time in as many minutes, fingers absently tracing the image on the paper before him. Deft swoops and curls of ink captured his own likeness on an otherwise blank page in his notebook. The artist gave Clark an air of focus and determination, and had admittedly made Clark look rather attractive – an exaggeration, surely. It was only a bust shot, but it was remarkably detailed, considering the brief amount of time taken to complete it.

A low whistle just next to his head made him instinctively cover the picture, but the damage had already been done.

“Wow Clark, I didn’t know you drew. That’s a wonderful portrait,” Lois marveled, unabashedly pulling his hand away so she could get a better look.

Clark flushed a bit, but plucked up his courage and told her, “I didn’t draw it.”

“Oh.” Lois deflated slightly. “Then who did?”

Clark felt his blush deepen and crawl under the collar of his shirt. Lois instantly perked up again as she leaned in, propping a hand on his desk.

“He wouldn’t happen to have a fancy title, would he? Own a newspaper, perhaps?”

“ _Lois_ ,” Clark hissed, eyes darting about the bullpen to ensure nobody heard her. She just laughed, gently smacking his shoulder blade as she straightened out.

“It’s hardly a secret, Clark. His grace only speaks regularly with two people in this building, and I’m fairly certain he has no plans to court Mr. White anytime soon,” she teased.

“He has no plans to court _me_ either!” Clark insisted vehemently.

Lois crossed her arms and gave him a deadpan stare, though her lips twitched slightly. “Naturally. He comes no less than twice weekly to see you simply because he’s bored. Clearly, if he had aspirations of wooing you, he would take you to lunch, or go on walks in the park with you. Perhaps he’d accompany you to afternoon tea, or draw striking pictures of you – oh wait,” she drawled, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

Clark frowned at her, trying his best to tamp down the traitorous hope swelling in his chest. “Those are all activities shared by friends as well, Lois. Perhaps he just enjoys spending time with someone who isn’t cowed by his title,” he retaliated.

“Fair point,” she admitted, “though I was under the impression that when men want to bond, they have a pint at the pub or smoke together at a gentleman’s club.”

That drew Clark up short. Lois saw the hesitation in his face and pounced. “Clark, as someone who’s been courted many times before, let me assure you – his grace’s intentions with you are hardly platonic. He’s been chasing your affections for _ages_. Perhaps it’s time you reward him for his efforts.”

And with that, she gave him a pat on the shoulder and left, as though she hadn’t just turned Clark’s world on its head.

He blankly stared at the drawing on his desk, mind buzzing as he struggled to process Lois’ words. _Surely_ there was no reason the duke would be interested in pursuing him. Why on Earth would he? Never mind that he was spending all this time with Clark, that he was so thoughtful and always read all of the articles Clark published and gave them glowing reviews, that he had this soft smile Clark thought seemed to be reserved only for him…

He shook his head and firmly put his notebook away. Just because _he_ was in love with the duke didn’t mean it was acceptable to project his desires onto the poor man. He pulled out his notes on the Ripper case and flipped one of the files open, determined to put this whole business behind him. He reviewed the information he’d obtained at George Lusk’s home, trying to find some nuance that he might’ve previously missed.

This lasted for about twenty minutes before some part of Clark’s mind drifted back to Lois’ words. _Surely_ she wouldn’t be so cruel as to tell Clark something like that if she didn’t _truly_ believe it…

He sighed and dropped his forehead onto his desk, allowing the piles of paper to soften the blow. He lay there and wallowed in indecision until someone hesitantly spoke up.

“Everything okay, Mr. Kent?”

Clark slowly sat up and met Jimmy’s concerned gaze. Light eyebrows were furrowed over bright green eyes, and his freckled cheeks shifted as his lips tried to decide how deeply they should frown.

Clark almost immediately said “Yes, I’m fine,” but something made him hold his tongue. He thought for a moment, then, seemingly apropos of nothing, asked, “Have you ever been in love, Jimmy?”

The teen seemed confused by the question, but he faithfully replied, “Well, I’ve fancied a girl once or twice, but I’m not sure I could call it love. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Clark hummed, debating how he should respond, when Jimmy added, a little too innocently, “Is this about the duke, Mr. Kent?”

Clark nearly choked on his tongue, glaring when Jimmy just gave him a wide-eyed stare.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he replied hotly, blush coming back in full force.

“Well then, if you’re so sure of that, this mightn’t make much sense,” Jimmy lightly replied, rocking back on his heels, “but I’ll say it anyways – Mr. Kent, _everybody_ sees how you look at the duke, and you’d have to be blind to miss the way he looks right back at you. He makes you happy, and I think it’s safe to say you return the favor. You’re good for each other, and something like that is usually worth pursuing.”

Jimmy gave him a small, but sincere smile. Unfortunately, their shared moment was interrupted when a bellowed “ _OLSEN”_ rung out somewhere in the bullpen. The teen flinched violently and sprinted off without so much as a “good day,” but Clark didn’t really notice. He shoved his case file to one side and pulled out the drawing again, recalling the events earlier this afternoon that had led up to it.

 

* * *

 

_“…and that is why you should **never** cross a badger unless you have proper protection.”_

_Clark had long since removed his glasses, face buried in both of his hands in a desperate attempt to muffle his laughter. The duke’s story would’ve had him rolling on the ground, if such a thing were proper, but as it was, they were in an elegant tearoom, and such behavior would be completely inappropriate. They were receiving odd looks from the regulars as it was._

_Eventually, his giggles subsided, and he composed himself enough to carefully pick up his glasses and wipe them off with his napkin. When he settled them on his nose again, he heard a quiet chuckle that made his heart stutter._

_The duke’s lips were curled into a tender smile, his eyes suffused with warmth. “I suppose I ought to make a fool of myself more often if it elicits such a delightful response,” he murmured._

_Clark flushed, but haughtily replied, “I suspect you make a fool of yourself plenty without any motivation.”_

_This time it was the duke who laughed, rich and full with a smile that showed a flash of teeth. “Your suspicions wouldn’t be far off, Kent,” he chortled._

_Clark’s chest ached. How could one man stand to be so beautiful and charming? He watched helplessly as the duke regained his composure, absently running a hand through tousled raven locks. The noble lifted his teacup and took a measured sip, staring thoughtfully into the brew. His lips began forming words, but Clark was too mesmerized by their movement to make out any specifics. It was only when long, elegant fingers snapped somewhere near his nose that he broke out of his daze._

_“So sorry, your grace, what now?” he asked._

_The duke gave a very put-upon sigh, but his small smile ruined the effect. “I asked if you ever did any of your own illustrations for your articles,” he repeated, setting his teacup back on its saucer._

_“I tried once, your grace, but I’m afraid art is not a talent I possess – I submitted a picture of a stolen locket, and Mr. White asked how an image of a bloated snake was relevant to my story. I thought it best to leave the drawing to the professionals after that,” he admitted._

_The duke laughed again, and even though it was at his expense, Clark found he didn’t mind so much._

_“What about you? Are you among the artistically inclined, your grace?” Clark teased._

_The duke hummed, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. “Well, I did learn how – part of the standard curriculum for a young noble,” he drawled, “but I never did much of it in my free time. Paints took too long to dry, and I grew terribly frustrated with sketches if they didn’t look just so.”_

_“I can imagine,” Clark grinned. He fished his notebook out of his jacket and offered it with his pen. “Here, let’s see if you’ve been practicing.”_

_“Oh no,” the noble protested, “I’ll do no such thing. I haven’t attempted a drawing in **years**.”_

_“Surely, out of all those lessons, **something** has stuck,” Clark laughed. “Humor me.”_

_The duke hesitated, but he eventually relented, plucking the pen out of Clark’s hand and moving his cup and saucer to the side to make space for the notebook. He chewed his bottom lip for a moment in a most distracting fashion before he slowly set pen to paper and let it glide across the surface. From this angle, Clark couldn’t tell what he was drawing, but watching his hand sweep and flick with each stroke was mesmerizing in and of itself. They shared a comfortable silence for a few minutes, the noble focusing on his work and Clark focusing on the noble. After what felt like an eternity, the duke set the pen down and offered the notebook to Clark._

_“Does this pass muster?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow._

_Clark took the proffered notebook and sucked in a sharp breath. He’d expected a landscape, or perhaps the centerpiece on their table, but instead, a familiar-looking man glanced at something off to his right with great intensity._

_“It’s…is that me?” he asked incredulously._

_“Well, it’s supposed to be. Did I do so poorly that you can’t tell?” the duke asked lightly, though there was a slight undercurrent of genuine concern._

_“No, there isn’t any doubt, it’s beautiful! I just…” Clark trailed off. He pulled his gaze away from the page so he could meet the duke’s eyes. “It’s lovely, your grace,” he said firmly._

_He was rewarded with another heartbreaking smile. “If you like it all that much, it’s yours.”_

_“Wha?” Clark sputtered. “Are you sure?”_

_The duke’s smile widened. “If I ever want to see you, my memories are plenty reliable. Take it as a gift,” he insisted._

_Clark flushed, but he smiled gratefully and took one last look at the drawing before putting his notebook back into his jacket. “Thank you, your grace. I think you perhaps gave my appearance too much credit, but I can find no fault besides.”_

_“Hmm. I wonder.” The duke vaguely replied. “Perhaps it’s the case that I didn’t manage to truly do you justice.”_

_Clark had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too widely._

 

* * *

 

He felt a grin creeping across his face even now, sitting in the bullpen at _The Telegraph_ , staring at the ink sketch like it held all the answers he sought. In a way, perhaps it did. There was no doubting there was _something_ going on between them, and Clark realized he enjoyed his time with the duke far too much to just give up on it now. The fact that Clark himself wasn’t exactly an esteemed member of the nobility hadn’t seemed to deter the duke yet, so he doubted it would cause too much trouble in the future. If the noble decided it was Clark he wanted, then it was Clark he would get.

Filled with a newfound confidence, Clark rose from his chair and pulled on his coat. Lois was right – the duke had been doing all of the work so far, and that was hardly fair, now was it?

Clark had some catching up to do.


	16. All Hallows’ Eve

_31 October_

“Sir, I believe that is meant to be worn left over right.”

“Well, if you know so much, Alfred, a little more guidance would be appreciated.”

Bruce huffed as his butler tutted and waved the duke’s hands away, grasping the embroidered fabric and draping it appropriately across his chest.

“Now, if you’ll just hold it there, your grace, I’ll attach the final piece,” Alfred said, waiting for Bruce to adjust his grip before picking up a length of fabric that had been draped over a nearby chair. With skillful precision, he wrapped it around Bruce’s midsection and secured it in place, giving it a firm tug to ensure it wouldn’t unravel over the course of the evening.

“There. Now as long as you don’t go scaling any buildings or jumping any fences, your ensemble should hold together, your grace,” he added, his tone holding just a hint of warning.

“Don’t worry yourself Alfred. The Bat can’t exactly do his work when he’s wearing such bright colors.”

That was a bit of an understatement. Bruce’s costume for tonight’s festivities was a Chinese Hanfu, directly imported from the distant country for the occasion. The topmost layer of the robes was white linen, with some green embroidery along the collar and two huddled dragons at the top of his arms. Underneath were layers of forest green and crimson red fabric, which flowed out along the edge of the wide sleeves. The matching sash around his midsection had three jade stones attached to the front and a length of green cloth that reached the floor, which bore another large embroidered dragon. It was a very handsome set, and nearly cost Bruce a fortune, but tonight was a special occasion, so he supposed it was appropriate. After all, one had to look their best for Her Royal Majesty’s annual celebration of All Hallows’ Eve.

“Your invitation and pocket watch will both fit in your sash, sir,” Alfred said, handing them to Bruce. “Do you require anything else of me, your grace?”

“No, that will be all. Thank you Alfred,” Bruce responded, tucking the items away as suggested and running his hands through his hair. He never enjoyed playing the brainless socialite at these events, but for some reason, it seemed a particularly unbearable task tonight. Samantha Vanaver would be there, at least, so the whole thing wouldn’t be a complete loss, but there was someone else he knew very well he’d much rather see.

Alfred seemed to sense his train of thought, quietly reminding him, “It’s not too late to see if Mr. Kent is free tonight, your grace.”

Bruce frowned. “You know as well as I do that it is _entirely_ too late, Alfred. I’m sure someone as engaging as Kent already has plans tonight. Not to mention he wouldn’t have an appropriate costume, I’m sure.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he shot back, “I’m sure I could come up with something, sir.”

Bruce glared at him, but as usual, it was like glaring at a brick wall – Alfred was unflappable in the extreme. With a sigh, he turned to look out the window, eyeing the elaborate carriages passing by in the streets, no doubt on their way to the palace themselves. He absently wondered what Clark _was_ doing. Perhaps _The Telegraph_ held a company party, or maybe he was visiting family out in the country. He recalled Clark mentioning parents and a cousin living near Bedford…

“Your grace, if I may, _why_ did you neglect to invite Mr. Kent to the celebration?”

Bruce smothered another sigh and turned to his butler with an air of exhaustion. “I’ve told you before Alfred, he deserves better than a lunatic who dresses like a bat at night and comes home with a flesh wound more often than not. I love him, I’ll freely admit that, but sometimes love isn’t enough. My love can’t keep me from my mission. My love can’t keep a bed warm at night. My love can’t heal an open wound. Even if, by some miracle, he returns my affections and consents to living with me, to _marrying_ me, he’ll only become increasingly unhappy the longer I force him to stay by my side. I won’t ruin him, Alfred. I won’t do it.”

He wiped a hand down his face and took a deep breath. “Besides,” he continued, “the information I got from Lusk has finally narrowed my suspect list to an acceptably small number of individuals. I’ve almost got the Ripper in my grasp, Alfred. I can’t afford any distractions right now.”

Before the older man could respond, Bruce stepped past him and into the hallway, quickly retreating down the stairs. He had other places to be. If tonight was to be bearable, he’d have to ensure he didn’t spend half of it hopelessly pining over Clark bloody Kent.

 

* * *

 

The trip to Buckingham Palace was brief – getting in was less so. Carriages were crammed into the roundabout out front, each taking their turn to pull up and drop off their illustrious passengers before clearing out. When Edwin finally got to the front of the procession, years of ingrained habit and lessons in manners were the only thing keeping Bruce from throwing himself out of the carriage and sprinting into the building. As it was, he managed to move as quickly as possible while still appearing dignified. He passed the guards at the door, navigated the opulent halls, was properly announced by the usher at the entrance of the ballroom, and greeted all the proper people before making his way to the nearest server for a glass of wine. He didn’t usually let himself drink at these events, but he felt it could be excused tonight.

He drifted about, chatting with groups of elaborately-dressed nobles and businessmen and taking in the decorative swaths of purple and black cloth draped about the ballroom before his saving grace finally appeared, heralded by a sound like the chiming of bells.

“Oh Bruce, I was hoping you’d be here tonight!” Samantha Vanaver cried, making her way to Bruce’s side. Her costume was clearly based on the Egyptian queen, Cleopatra – she wore a massive jeweled headdress and had loops of gold around her neck and on her arms. The bodice of her dress clung to her curves, flaring slightly at her waist, and ending at the floor. All of the fabric had beads and jewels sewn on in symmetric patterns, while the train was embroidered with golden thread, forming several Egyptian depictions of a bird with spread wings. She completed the outfit with a long-handled fan made out of peacock feathers.

“I wouldn’t miss this for anything,” Bruce assured her, taking her free hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Especially since I have the pleasure of seeing you in this beautiful ensemble.”

She smiled, and obligingly took back her hand so she could do a small spin for him. “Isn’t it lovely? I’ve had my seamstresses working on it for months! I’m quite proud of the job they’ve done.” She paused to take in Bruce’s outfit before adding, “Oh, and don’t you look dashing! Is that Chinese?”

“Very observant, Samantha,” he said, offering his arm. “Yes, I had it imported for the occasion.”

“Only the finest for our duke, hmm?” she teased, taking it and allowing him to guide her to the edge of the dance floor. She was passing her fan off to a nearby valet when the band started playing a slow waltz, prompting Bruce to turn to his companion.

“Would you do me the honor of a dance?” he asked, offering his other hand.

“I would be delighted,” she replied, putting her hand in his and pulling him into the crowd. She released it for just a moment to slide her hand through a discrete loop in her dress, pulling it off the floor just enough to make it maneuverable, before resting her other hand on his shoulder. Bruce gently grabbed her waist and led her into the dance, expertly guiding them across the floor. They shared a comfortable silence, losing themselves in the music and movement, that was only broken when the song slowly transitioned into something with a quicker tempo. Bruce gave Samantha a mischievous grin, which was the only warning she received before he swept her up and twirled them about, causing her dress to flare out and begin chiming like so many fairy bells. She burst into delighted laughter, breathlessly following Bruce’s lead as she clutched him tighter. The duke even felt his own face split into a genuine grin as he dodged the slower couples on the floor, taking care to avoid swinging his partner into someone else’s path.

Eventually, the song changed again, forcing Bruce to bring their dance to a close. He gave Samantha one last playful twirl before escorting her to the edge of the ballroom, grabbing a glass of wine for her from a passing server.

“Well,” she gasped, fanning herself with her hand, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so lively, your grace.”

“Anything can happen on All Hallows’ Eve,” he teased, handing her the glass and urging her towards a seat.

She managed to gracefully plop onto the nearest chair, taking a long sip of wine and catching her breath. Her cheeks bore a rosy hue, though if it was from the dancing or the alcohol, Bruce couldn’t say. He turned away for a moment, trying to spot the valet that had her fan, but turned back when she began to speak again.

“You know, I think you’ve changed,” she observed, eyeing him with startling seriousness.

He blinked innocently. “How so?”

She pursed her full lips and hummed thoughtfully. “You seem…happier,” she decided. “Not in the sense of being happy you’re here, but in the sense that something has changed in your life. Like you’ve encountered something wonderful and still carry it in your heart.”

Bruce carefully didn’t show any kind of reaction. He’d always admired Samantha for her wit and her unusual perceptiveness, but it was a bit vexing to have it turned against him.

“I think I’d remember if such a thing happened,” was his wary reply.

“One would think.” She easily agreed. “Which means it _has_ happened and _you’re_ not telling me something.”

It was a struggle to quell the urge to fidget. Bruce forced himself to stay put as Samantha slowly rose from her seat, smirking all the while.

“I’ve seen it enough times. That faraway look in one’s eyes when their body is present, but their mind is not. When they’re holding someone in their arms and they very much wish it was someone else.”

At that, Bruce finally blanched. “Samantha, I – ”

“Oh, don’t apologize Bruce,” she reprimanded with a sad smile. “I know I always hoped it would be me, but I’m still your friend, aren’t I? I’ll mourn what I wish we had, but I’ll not let it interfere with what we _do_ have.”

Bruce was silent for a moment, forced to reevaluate the woman before him. He thought he knew Samantha Vanaver quite well, but it seemed she always had a way to surprise him. He gave her a grateful smile as he took her hand and kissed it again.

“I _am_ sorry it wasn’t you, Samantha. You are a remarkable woman – any man would be lucky to have you for a bride,” he insisted.

“Oh, no need to remind me darling,” she teased. She didn’t release his hand, but instead used it to pull him closer, leaning in to whisper in Bruce’s ear.

“However, that means you just _have_ to tell me who’s stolen your heart.”

He nearly choked on nothing but air, turning it into a cough at the last minute. Samantha leaned away, smirking knowingly.

“There are many things I would do for you, Samantha. That is not one of them.”

She pouted, but before she could respond, a bell was rung and a hush fell over the ballroom. The usher stepped forward and spoke to the crowd.

“Her Royal Majesty, Queen Victoria, wishes for her guests to convene in the gardens, where the firelight ceremony will take place. Please follow the valets to your destination.”

With that, the costumed masses began leaving through the grand doorway. Samantha huffed and took Bruce’s arm, but whispered, “Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he deadpanned, smothering a smile when she smacked his arm. They followed the crowd down a series of hallways until they all poured into the courtyard at the back of the palace, where a massive pile of wood was carefully stacked. Already, a procession of cloaked servants was beginning to emerge from another part of the palace, led by the Queen herself and Princess Beatrice. They all carried large torches, casting their faces in eerie shadows as they circled around the pile of lumber. One by one, they lowered the torches to the pile, igniting an enormous bonfire that lit the entire courtyard.

As the next group came out, dressed like fairies and hobgoblins and carrying the effigy of a witch, Bruce found himself thinking of Samantha’s earlier observation.

_Like you’ve encountered something wonderful and still carry it in your heart._

It was, he supposed, not an entirely inaccurate assessment. Clark was like nobody Bruce had ever met before. He was clever and determined, but also exceedingly kind and incredibly handsome. He was truly something wonderful, and Bruce could freely admit that meeting Clark had changed him irreversibly. Even if he could never have the man for himself, Bruce felt as though being in his presence was blessing enough – that Clark’s gift of friendship was the best thing to ever happen to him.

As the hobgoblin threw the witch into the flames, prompting the crowd to cheer and the band to begin playing again, Bruce thought maybe that wasn’t so bad.

He would throw himself into a thousand fires if it meant meeting Clark Kent, in this life or any other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Queen Victoria did indeed celebrate All Hallows' Eve in this fashion in 1876, though it was done out at Balmoral Castle, not at Buckingham. I took a bit of liberty with that detail. If you'd like visuals for the costumes, [this](http://www.finechineseclothing.com/eng/Product/detail.aspx?productID=2095) is Bruce’s and [this](http://oldrags.tumblr.com/post/9407468096/cleopatra-fancy-dress-by-worth-1897%20) is Samantha’s.


	17. Cooperation and Courage

_7 November_

Another slow news day in London should have been a good thing. Most people would say so. Clark would probably sock them if he heard, though.

Slow news day meant he had no excuse to leave his desk, which meant all he could do was sit here and stare at the ever-growing Ripper casefile that, for all the information he’d managed to add, still didn’t come together to form a clear picture of what was really happening. He gnawed angrily on a pencil as he reviewed his latest interview with Inspector Gordon.

The poor man looked like he’d been run ragged when Clark last saw him. Crime never stops in London, so he had all the usual day-to-day issues to deal with, but the Ripper case was driving him mad. His department had enough trouble pulling together clues and coherent testimonies, but ever since the death of Catherine Eddowes in the City of London, the City Police had forced their way into the case, claiming that a death in the city proper made it their business as much as it was the Yard’s.

Gordon clearly had other opinions, but also didn’t have much of a choice – any crimes in the city proper _did_ fall under the jurisdiction of the City Police. Unfortunately, having both them and the Yard working on the same case was turning out to be a complete disaster.

In the last month or so, Gordon said the police had snatched a suspect or a witness out from under his nose no less than five times. It wasn’t just aggravating, it was detrimental to everyone’s efforts. Clark knew that unless the police could get their act together and start working _with_ the Yard, there was no way they’d be able to find the Ripper.

Clark frowned at his transcription of the conversation and absently spit out a mouthful of splinters. In the 38 days since Eddowes’ death, the Ripper hadn’t shown himself again, which meant one of two things: either he had finally stopped and was laying low to avoid arrest (perhaps had left the city entirely), or he was gearing up for something far worse. As much as he wished it was the former, Clark had a sinking feeling it would be the latter – every death so far had been increasingly gruesome, each more horrific than the last, so it would make sense if it was all to culminate in some awful climax. It would certainly fit with Clark’s suspicion that the Ripper was treating these women as morbid pieces of art.

His despairing train of thought was interrupted by a pair of chimes. His gaze darted to the small clock on the wall at the far end of the bullpen, which cheerfully announced it was two o’clock in the afternoon. Clark felt a smile involuntarily pull at the corners of his mouth. For once, the duke had managed to plan something in advance, telling Clark last time they spoke that he’d arrive at two-thirty today to take him out. He hadn’t divulged where they were going, so Clark was eagerly anticipating seeing him again. Even more than usual, that is.

He still had a half-hour yet (and that was assuming his grace arrived on time, which was rare), but Clark found himself tidying up his desk regardless. He took great care to put the Ripper file back together in the same order and lock it in one of his drawers, while miscellaneous papers were piled together and stuffed where they would fit, leaving a notebook and his chewed pencil on the oaken surface. The book was flipped open to a page of absent thoughts Clark had jotted down that morning, including a short list of people in Whitechapel that may still be worth talking to.

He lifted the notebook and looked over the list again, calculating how long it would take to track all of them down this evening after his outing with the duke. It would probably take him until well after sundown, but Clark never had a problem with that before – it wasn’t unusual for him to have to walk home in the wee hours of the morning after chasing leads for a story all night. He’d just have to be extra vigilant – while there was a thrilling chance of meeting the Batman again, there was also a risk of running into the Ripper, which likely wouldn’t end well.

Having come to a decision, Clark rose, pulled on his coat, and tucked the notebook and a new, unmarred pencil into an inner pocket. He pushed his chair in under his desk and turned to leave, only to be stopped by a familiar giggle.

“Off to see your beau again, Clark?” Lois teased, fluttering her eyelashes playfully as she carried a tray of full teacups.

Ever since their conversation two weeks ago, Clark had given up on correcting these kinds of statements and (mostly) stopped blushing at them. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and easily replied, “I am. Do I look acceptable?”

Lois gave him a slow once-over. “Well sure, if you think tweed is acceptable to wear in public.”

Clark pouted, but quickly recomposed his features into something more haughty. “Well, _the duke_ seems to find it acceptable, so perhaps your standards are skewed, Ms. Lane,” he huffed.

Lois barked out a very unladylike laugh before dialing it back to a more acceptable level of chuckling. The tea rippled, but not a drop splashed out of place.

“There you go, Clark. Have some confidence!” she gasped between fits of laughter. A slow smile stretched across his face as she fought for composure, clearing her throat before continuing, “But really, I’m happy for you. Have you said anything to him yet?”

Clark’s brows pinched in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Lois gave him a blank stare. “…said anything about your…affections for him?” she explained slowly, as though to a particularly dense child.

Clark flushed, but his voice was steady when he said, “Not yet. I’ve been waiting for an appropriate time.”

Her eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “More appropriate than that dinner date you two were on earlier this week?”

“ _How do you even know about that??_ ” Clark hissed in embarrassment.

Lois shrugged and evaded with “I have my resources.”

Clark frowned at her, but when she gave no indication of elaborating, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair again. “I just don’t know, Lois,” he groaned, bowing his head. “I keep telling myself I’ll do it _this_ time, but the time comes and goes and he’s just so charming and impossible, so I bite my tongue like a coward and say I’ll do it _next_ time. It’s a vicious cycle.”

Lois’ face softened and she set her tray on Clark’s desk before taking his hands, squeezing them gently as she earnestly whispered, “Clark, I know you’re afraid, and that’s alright. That’s _normal_. But I promise you, telling the duke you love him won’t be a mistake. You deserve to be with someone who makes you happy, and I honestly can’t imagine anyone making you as happy as he has.”

“Neither can I,” he quietly admitted, squeezing her hands in return to keep his from trembling. He took a deep breath and looked her in the eyes.

“Well then, today’s as fine a day as any,” he declared, squaring his shoulders and withdrawing his hands.

Lois gasped softly. “Truly Clark? You promise?”

“I promise,” he assured her, eyes darting to the clock again. “As a matter of fact, he’ll be here shortly, so I’ll go greet him out front.”

“Oh, I can’t wait! Tell me _everything_ about it!” Lois insisted, grinning and picking up her tray again. “Have fun!” With a quick spin and a jaunty gait, she disappeared into the mass of bodies scurrying around the bullpen.

Clark knew he probably set himself up for failure, but he tried to ignore the niggling doubt and force every ounce of confidence he didn’t feel into his stride, leaving the bullpen and making his way down the hall before passing through the lobby. He swung the door open and stepped out onto the bustling sidewalk, taking a cursory glance up and down the curb. Sure enough, a familiar carriage led by a stunning black horse was just pulling up, door swinging open even before it came to a complete stop. A pair of polished oxfords was first to emerge, followed by elegantly cut grey trousers, then a torso clad in a dark blue waistcoat and a grey overcoat. Finally, a familiar pair of light blue eyes peered out from under a top hat, blinking in surprise.

“Ah, I made such an effort to arrive in a timely fashion, yet I’ve made you wait regardless. It seems my tardiness is incurable,” the duke sighed, dramatically removing his hat and holding it to his breast. “How do you ever find it in yourself to forgive me?”

Clark smiled at the duke’s antics, but a whisper in the back of his mind urged him to respond.

_Because I love you,_ he could say. _I’d forgive you for just about anything, because I adore you and everything you are._

“Because…” Clark began. The duke smiled lightly, urging him to continue.

“Because I…” he trailed off again. He looked deeply into the warm eyes that had been haunting his dreams and every waking thought and sighed.

“Because I’ve been made to wait far longer by far less savory people, your grace,” he finally finished.

The duke flinched slightly, and almost looked…upset? But before Clark could say for sure, the noble was smiling again and replacing his hat.

“I have no doubt. Come along then! I think you’ll really enjoy where we’re going today,” he assured Clark, gesturing for him to enter the carriage first.

Clark forced a smile and climbed in, but the instant the duke moved to the front of the carriage to give his driver instructions, Clark slumped in his seat, shoulders drooping in defeat.

_I’ll do it next time_ , he thought bitterly. _Isn’t that what I always say?_


	18. The Ripper Revealed

_9 November_

Bruce frowned at the amalgamation of papers before him. He’d spread them out across his study once again, trying to make sense of them before he went on patrol for the night. Everything he’d gathered so far led him to believe Jack the Ripper would strike one last time, and soon – but he just couldn’t pin down the specifics.

The suspect list was down to three men, all of whom had similar histories, mental profiles, and suspicious circumstances surrounding their whereabouts at the time of each murder. Minute differences were all that separated them, making it near impossible to determine who was guilty. Instead, Bruce had turned his attention to figuring out who the next victim would be – instead of looking for the Ripper, he’d let the Ripper come to him.

He’d compiled a list of prostitutes in the Whitechapel area known for their alcoholism, then began the tedious process of determining who was the most likely to attract the Ripper’s attention. This list was far shorter now than it had been a couple weeks ago, but there were still too many names on it for him to effectively work with. He was just about ready to give up when Alfred rapped on the doorframe.

“Will you be preparing for patrol soon, your grace?” he enquired.

“I suppose…” Bruce grumbled. “It’s not like I’m being terribly productive here…”

“If I may, sir,” the butler gently interrupted, “I think perhaps there’s a better way to approach this.”

“Enlighten me, Alfred. What am I missing?” the duke wearily replied.

“Instead of separately looking at ‘which man is the killer’ or ‘which woman is a likely victim,’ perhaps you should look at the women through the lens of each suspect. How likely is _this man in particular_ to kill these women? Then move along to the next suspect, and so forth.”

Bruce hummed thoughtfully. Instead of giving a more eloquent reply, he began moving papers around, organizing them in a different manner to reflect this new approach. Mind working furiously, he ran through the list of potential victims and thought of it the way Alfred advised, muttering to himself as he dug out a pencil and a stray piece of paper to organize his thoughts. His hand flew as he considered and discarded possible combinations, writing names and scratching them out in turn. By the time he came to his third suspect, a better picture of what was to come was already forming in his mind’s eye, and he abruptly stopped writing.

No. Impossible. This woman was far too young. And yet…

“Alfred…”

Bruce’s voice was shaky, but his hands were steady. He carelessly dropped his utensils and spun on his heel, closing the distance to the door in quick strides.

“Prepare the suit immediately. I know who it is. I know where I need to be.”

“Your grace?” Alfred responded in confusion.

“No time,” Bruce impatiently snapped. “He’s going to strike tonight. I know who he’s after. I need to save her.”

 

* * *

 

His breath came in ragged heaves, but Bruce knew he didn’t have the luxury of rest. He leapt to the next rooftop before firing off his grappling gun to reach another. His muscles screamed in protest, and he stumbled a bit when his feet hit the ground, but he picked himself back up and kept running. Dorset Street was almost within eyeshot now, looking particularly ominous in the foggy night. Heavy, dark clouds hung in the sky, threatening a downpour before this night was through.

With another thud, Bruce landed on top of number 26 Dorset Street, peering down into the adjacent Miller’s Court. A streetlamp provided a weak source of light in the narrow road, illuminating just enough to tell Bruce nobody was there. He dropped down and quietly approached the entrance of number 13 Miller’s Court, giving the door a gentle tug. When it failed to budge, he crept around the corner to the windows of the dwelling. A few of the panes in one window were broken, though he couldn’t tell how recently. Steeling himself, Bruce reached through one of the open panes with a gloved hand and swept aside the faded curtain hanging there.

Despite his best efforts, nothing could have prepared him for this.

The resident, a twenty-five year old woman named Mary Kelly, was laying in her bed, dressed in only a chemise – she had clearly been asleep at some point, but the stillness in her form now was not restful.

Her legs were spread wide and one arm was partially disconnected from her body. The entire surface of her abdomen and thighs were removed and then piled on her bedside table. Her arms had several jagged cuts, and her face was mutilated beyond recognition. Her abdominal cavity was sliced open and emptied out – there was a pile of entrails to her right, and more beneath her head – and her breasts had been cut off and discarded. Even in the dim light, Bruce could tell the bed was soaked in her blood. The Ripper clearly intended for this to be his magnum opus – the culmination of his vile efforts.

Bruce’s heart ached – once again, he was too slow – but if the stench was anything to go by, the blood was fresh, so the Ripper had to be nearby. The Bat may not have been able to save Miss Kelly, but he could damn well avenge her.

He dropped the drapes and clambered back up to the rooftop, scanning the streets below. The killer couldn’t have gotten far…

Nearby, Bruce heard the crack of a whip. A horse whinnied and a carriage began clattering over the cobblestones. Why did that seem familiar? He skimmed through his memories until he came to 30 September. The double event. What did he hear just before he found Eddowes?

_The sound of a horse-drawn carriage._

Pulse pounding, Bruce leapt to the next rooftop. The vehicle was still close by, obviously going for a sedate, inconspicuous pace. Quietly as he could, he made his way from building to building, closing in on the small two-person carriage. He couldn’t see the driver’s face from this vantage point, since he wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long black coat, but Bruce suspected that wasn’t who he was interested in anyways. He carefully gauged the distance, then took a deep breath and threw himself from the roof.

He landed on the top of the carriage with a resounding crash. The horse shrieked and the driver hollered, trying to get the beast under control again, but it was no use. Bruce heaved his weight to the right, causing the vehicle to tip over precariously, and with one last jostle from the uneven road, the whole thing lurched and toppled onto its side, knocking the horse over and throwing the driver from his seat. Bruce leapt from his perch and landed on the ground in a neat roll, easily clearing the devastation. By the time he rose and turned, the horse had stopped struggling, lying prone in the street. The panicked driver clambered to his feet and ran off, disappearing into the mist, but the carriage itself remained undisturbed. One wheel had been knocked loose and spun aimlessly on its axel, filling the air with a repetitive squeak.

Bruce’s eyes remained glued to the carriage door. It was the only way for the Ripper to get out. He had nowhere to go. After it remained untouched for what felt like an eternity, Bruce warily approached, listening for any hint of movement inside. The silence urged him up onto the overturned vehicle. One hand rose to protect his chest while the other cautiously grasped the handle of the door. One last deep breath, and he threw it open.

Immediately, a dark shape threw itself out of the carriage, led by a telltale shimmer that Bruce quickly knocked away, though not before it tore across his chest, peeling apart his leather armor and drawing blood.

He backflipped off the carriage and landed in the street, gaze locked with the monster he’d been hunting for the last two months. It sneered at him, flicking its wrist to clean the blood off a knife as long as Bruce’s forearm. With all the air of a man about to deliver an important speech, it straightened its ratty, bloodstained shirt, which hung open down to its abdomen, revealing scarred flesh covered in thin, methodical slices. Wild blue eyes sunk into a gaunt face, and a shaven head reflected what little light remained in these early morning hours, illuminating four vertical scars on his forehead.

“Victor Zsasz,” Bruce growled, grimacing at the sharp grin that stretched across the man’s face.

 “A pleasure to meet you at last, Batman,” he rasped, offering a mocking bow. “Indeed, I am Mr. Zsasz. Or would it be more appropriate to say Jack the Ripper? That _is_ what the papers have been calling me, isn’t it?”

“I should have known from the start. You had an illustrious beginning – a sizeable inheritance in addition to a wildly successful business, a beautiful fiancé, caring parents. But everything went downhill fast, didn’t it?” Bruce surmised. “Your parents died in a boating accident, your company tanked, you turned to gambling for solace and lost your entire fortune to a bad game with Mr. Cobblepot, so your wife had to turn to prostitution to keep a roof over your heads. The only way _she_ could deal with that was copious amounts of gin, so when she wasn’t drinking, she was berating you for not working. That’s about when you snapped, wasn’t it? When you finally killed her and got the bright idea to do it again.”

“ _She was a zombie,”_ Zsasz hissed. “Her life was meaningless. _My_ life was meaningless. Why were we struggling? Why were we exhausting ourselves when none of it mattered? I _liberated_ her, Batman. I freed her from this endless cycle and turned her into a masterpiece, what more could she have wanted? Can’t you see? I’ve been helping these wretched women all along! I’ve been carefully keeping track of them all,” he added, proudly rolling up his sleeves to show off the slices along his arms. “One tally for each. See this one here?” he asked, pointing to a faded mark near his elbow. “That’s my wife’s. I can show you the cluster I added for these last five ladies. For Jack the Ripper’s little bundle. Would you like to see? Little Miss Kelly’s is still fresh.”

Bruce’s blood was boiling. With a fierce battle cry, he launched himself at the murderer and tackled him off of the carriage, grabbing for the hand that still wielded the butcher knife as they collided with the street. Zsasz let loose an animalistic growl and wrenched his hand free, lashing out at whatever part of Bruce he could hit. He managed to leave a gaping slice on the vigilante’s left arm and a nick on his unprotected jaw before Bruce landed a blow to his sternum, knocking the wind out of him. With a heaving gasp, Zsasz drove both of his feet into Bruce’s abdomen, knocking him back against the carriage and leaving him breathless for a moment.

The adversaries waited there, laying on the ground, sizing each other up in the still of the night. Zsasz sneered again and Bruce felt a cold dread settle over him.

“I still have plans, you know,” Zsasz casually began, slowly rising and wiping his blade on his shirt. “You weren’t the only thorn in my side, after all. Someone else got just a _little_ too close to finding me out. Can’t leave any loose ends, you know. Especially if they decide to write pesky articles that’ll rat me out.”

“I won’t let you, Zsasz,” Bruce growled, gripping the carriage and struggling to stand.

“I hate to be the one to tell you, but you don’t seem to be in the best position for making those kinds of threats, Batman,” he jeered. “How exhausted were you already when you found me? How long until the blood loss begins to make you woozy? Not very, I’m sure.”

He sniffed and pretended to adjust a hat he wasn’t wearing. “Well, this has been most thrilling, but I have other matters to attend to. I’ll come back for you later,” he assured Bruce, indicating to the scars on his forehead and tracing a diagonal slash across them with his finger. “See this one? I’ll leave the fifth tally here just for you. But that will have to be another time. I have an appointment with Mr. Kent, and I mustn’t keep him waiting.”

“Have a pleasant evening,” he cackled, strolling off down the road until he melted into the thickening fog. A threatening rumble in the sky above told Bruce it wouldn’t be long before the heavens opened and poor visibility became shit visibility. He couldn’t waste any time.

Unfortunately, Zsasz was right – Bruce was run completely ragged even before he got to Miller’s Court, and the wounds on his arm and chest were bleeding sluggishly. He grit his teeth and pulled himself upright, leaning heavily on the carriage and stifling a groan. He had to keep going. He _had_ to. All of his work as Batman, all the blood and sweat he’d put into protecting this city for the last year, _none_ of it would matter if he let Clark die tonight.

He fished out his grappling gun and fired, pulling himself up onto the nearest rooftop. His entire body protested, but he soldiered on, pushing himself to the limit as he sprinted across the Whitechapel skyline.

Where would Clark be right now? Most people would probably be at home sleeping, but Bruce had a feeling he wouldn’t be so lucky. Clark said he’d be out interviewing people this week, he remembered that much, but _where_? Bruce wracked his mind for an idle comment Clark might’ve dropped during one of their luncheons earlier in the week.

When the name “Dover Street” finally jumped out at him, he could’ve cried in relief. By this time of the morning, Clark should finally be heading home, and Dover Street was south of the Thames, which meant Clark would have to cross one of the bridges spanning the river to return to his home on the north side – the one closest to Dover Street was the London Bridge. The reporter tended to walk at a fairly brisk clip, so combined with Bruce’s punishing pace, the soonest he could intercept him was the bridge.

As the first drops of rain began to patter against his cowl, Bruce could only hope that was soon enough.


	19. The Bat Unmasked

_9 November_

“G’night, Mistah Kent. Safe travels home.”

“Thank you. Goodnight.”

Clark gave the bartender one last wave before he let the pub’s door swing shut. He tucked his umbrella under his arm and smiled to himself, pleased with all the information he’d managed to gather this evening. Everyone he wanted to talk to was willing to meet with him, and they all proved to be quite chatty. His notebook almost felt heavier in his coat pocket, practically dripping with stories waiting to be published.

He walked down the street, whistling a jaunty tune and letting his mind drift. As was often the case these days, it invariably wandered to thoughts of pale blue eyes and a velvety voice. An involuntary shiver ran down his spine as he left Dover Street and turned the corner onto Borough High Street, though whether it was one borne of desire or chill was debatable – the weather had taken a turn for the dreary in the last few hours. He pulled his overcoat tighter around himself and picked up the pace, footsteps muted in the thickening fog. The street lit up for a moment as a streak of lightning lanced through the sky, shortly followed by a rumble of thunder.

Suddenly, a dollop of water landed on Clark’s nose. He wiggled it a bit to shake off the excess and pursed his lips, but dutifully popped his umbrella open and continued on his way, moving swiftly up the avenue and towards the London Bridge as the rain began to fall in earnest.

After about five minutes, Clark could finally see two rows of streetlamps glowing in the distance, illuminating the top of the massive granite structure. The light caught the very top of each of its five arches, but couldn’t penetrate the thick fog passing under them, casting an eerie glow and giving the Thames a washed-out grey hue. Usually, this was the most congested crossing in the whole city, but the early morning hours ensured that Clark was completely alone as he stepped out onto the bridge, shivering when the breeze picked up.

He’d passed several streetlights and was nearly halfway across when a figure began to coalesce in the fog just a few feet away, causing him to abruptly stop and blink in surprise.

“Good evening!” Clark hollered over the drumming of the rain. “Unusual time of day to be about, isn’t it?”

The figure didn’t give any indication they’d heard him. They remained where they were, stock-still and breathing quietly. It was unnerving, but just as Clark had resolved to step into the road and go around, a raspy, unpleasant voice cut through the silence.

“Didn’t I tell you, boss? My work idn’t finished yet.”

Another crack of lightning cut through the gloom, illuminating the figure for only a few moments, but it was all the time Clark needed to know he was in terrible danger. Those words. That scarring. The wicked knife.

“Victor Zsasz. Jack the Ripper. All this time, it was you,” Clark whispered in horror.

Zsasz stepped into the light of the nearest streetlamp, casting menacing shadows across his face and highlighting the four pale scars on his forehead. “Ah, you were a few steps behind, Kent. The old Bat had it figured out sooner, didn’t he?”

Clark felt his pulse begin thundering in his veins. He’d anticipated this for weeks now, but there was something very different about _expecting_ a serial killer and _facing one down_.

“I’m sure that’s usually the case,” he hedged, casting about for some kind of plan. At this hour, calling for help wasn’t even worth considering, but Clark wasn’t exactly sure he could take on Zsasz and win. He was bulkier than the madman, sure, but the other was armed, and knew his weapon well.

Zsasz was tapping the flat side of his blade against his leg, beating out a nonsense rhythm as he took a step closer. “Yes, I _have_ noticed that. A bloke can’t do much in this city without the Bat hearing about it. _Nothing_ happens without his say-so.” He paused, pursing his lips as though he was deep in thought, but after a few moments, they split apart in a cruel grin. “But there’s somebody else in this town with that kind of influence, you know. Somebody who’s been running circles around the Bat for _months_.”

Clark frowned. “Someone who can avoid _Batman_? Really?” he asked despite himself, words laced with wary disbelief.

“How do you think _I_ danced out of his grip all this time, Mr. Kent? It’s always good to have help from high places,” Zsasz disclosed in an exaggerated stage whisper, face comically serious. He twirled his knife, making it glint in the muted lamplight, and smiled again. “But I suppose that doesn’t matter much. The Bat’s onto me now, so I’ve got to finish up before he comes along. How about we make this quick, boss?”

He tightened his grip on the blade and lunged, closing the distance between them before Clark could blink. He tried to bring his umbrella down, anything to put a bit of space between them, but Zsasz quickly knocked it aside with his free hand and lashed out with the other in one fluid motion. The sound of tearing fabric accompanied a sharp sting on Clark’s shoulder as the reporter ducked and the knife missed its intended target. Clark sucked in a breath through his teeth and stumbled backwards, slipping on the rain-slicked stones and falling on his rear, knocking his glasses off his face. Zsasz continued his advance, bearing down on the panicked reporter as he frantically scuttled backwards, ignoring the sharp pain in his shoulder. He held his breath and said a silent prayer, hoping that someone, _anyone_ , would come help him, but he refused to look away from the madman above him, staring defiantly into his feral gaze. Clark’s eyes flicked away for only a moment, when he swore he saw something emerging from the shadows behind Zsasz…

Suddenly, a pair of limbs as dark as the night slid out of the fog and locked around Zsasz’s neck, dragging him out of the lamplight with a strangled howl of outrage. For a moment, Clark could only sit dumbly on the sidewalk, listening to the sounds of a fierce struggle somewhere further along the bridge. When a familiar silhouette finally stood out against the light, illuminated from behind, Clark clambered to his feet and cautiously approached.

Sure enough, Batman himself was grappling with Zsasz, one hand attempting to control the knife while the other clenched around the madman’s throat. Zsasz wheezed and lashed out with his legs, catching Batman in the shins but failing to make him so much as flinch. The vigilante’s mouth twisted into a savage snarl as he shoved Zsasz back against the bridge’s stone railing, eliciting another choked growl.

Clark wavered in indecision. He desperately wanted to help – two was better than one, after all – but the Bat was far better equipped to handle the situation, and Clark didn’t want to get in his way. It was with a heavy heart and great anxiety that he stepped back, keeping clear of the fight, and watched helplessly as Zsasz finally landed a solid kick to Batman’s stomach, forcing him to release his hold. Zsasz pressed his advantage, blade glinting as it sunk into Batman’s right shoulder. Clark twitched and stifled a gasp, throat constricting as Batman grunted at the impact, then cried out as the blade withdrew.

Zsasz laughed maniacally and lashed out again, catching the outer part of Batman’s left thigh before the dark knight retaliated, landing a solid left hook square on Zsasz’s jaw. There was a sickening crunch and another howl of pain, but Batman paid no heed and kicked Zsasz in the chest, throwing him back against the railing again with a pronounced thud. He closed in and grappled with Zsasz again, but the scarred killer twisted his body and flipped them around, pinning Batman to the bridge. The knife was drawn back again, and Clark stopped breathing when he heard it strike true, sliding between Batman’s ribs with a slow squelch. The Bat exhaled sharply, curling in on himself slightly, but he grit his teeth and caught Zsasz’s wrists in a tight grip. With a great heave and another pained grunt, he leaned back and planted a foot on Zsasz’s torso, flinging him up over his head and clear off the bridge. The Ripper shrieked as he flew into the air and disappeared into the thick fog bank, landing in the river below with a gargled splash. Unfortunately, the momentum of that maneuver also sent Batman over the edge, though he managed to catch the railing to keep from meeting Zsasz’s fate.

Before Clark was even aware he was moving, he found himself at the bridge’s edge, reaching out to grab any part of Batman he could reach and pull him up onto solid ground. The cloaked man was heavier than Clark expected, and they toppled backwards, Clark landing in the road with a bleeding vigilante face-down in his lap.

“Are you okay? My god, how many times did he get you? Oh no…” Clark fretted, hands hovering over the body draped on him but refusing to touch it, for fear of aggravating his wounds.

Batman took a deep, ragged breath and slowly rolled over, aided by Clark’s hesitant grip. He lay there for a moment, attempting to catch his breath, before he finally asked, “Are you…are you alright, Kent?”

“ _Am I alright_? Are you kidding me?” Clark spluttered. “You – you just saved me, Batman! That was incredible! I owe you my life!”

Pale lips stretched into a pained grin beneath the cowl. “Thank God I did. I never…I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t…”

He broke off with a fierce coughing fit, his whole body convulsing with every exhalation. Clark felt a deep-seated panic grip him as he tried to cradle Batman’s torso, attempting to shift him into a more comfortable position. Eventually, the vigilante caught his breath again, and in a whisper barely audible over the pounding rain, he said, “Clark…”

“I’m here Batman. I can help, I swear. I can take you to – ”

“No,” the Bat interrupted, “it’s too late for that. I want…I _need_ you to take my cowl off.”

Clark blinked in surprise. “Are you sure?”

The Bat smiled again, though now it was rueful. “Please. I have to tell you something, and I can’t…not like this.”

Clark swallowed, but nodded and reached out with one hand to carefully tug at the lip of the mask, slowly pulling it up and over the man’s head. His heart nearly stopped as he realized he knew the tired face that emerged, dark bags seated under the same pale blue eyes he’d been thinking of not an hour before.

“Your grace?” he whispered, horrified.

The duke’s grin widened and gained a self-deprecating edge. “The one and only,” he drawled, smile fading as he took another shuddering breath. “I’m sorry I never told you, Clark. I had to keep you safe. I thought…I thought I could keep you out of this, that I could avoid dragging you into this world, and you just barreled in headfirst.” He chuckled, but it led to another coughing fit, causing Clark to murmur soothing nonsense as he fought to control it. He’d barely stopped before he continued, “Clark, I knew this would happen to me someday, that the path I’d chosen would lead to an early grave, and I never minded. It seemed a small price to pay to keep this city safe.” Another shaky breath. “But now, I’m scared Clark. I don’t _want_ to die. Not when I finally found something to live for.”

He reached up with a gloved hand and gently cupped Clark’s face, his eyes softening as he spoke. “Ever since my parents died, I’ve only been surviving, but ever since I met you, I’ve finally been _living_. I’ve had a reason to look forward to waking up every morning, a reason to smile and laugh and feel _whole_ again. Clark Kent, _I love you_ , and I’m so grateful I had the chance to experience that.”

Clark was crying by now, using his free hand to hold the one still cradling his face. “Your grace…”

“Please,” the duke pleaded, “just this once, call me Bruce.”

“I’ll call you anything if you’ll just _stay_ ,” Clark sobbed. “Bruce, please don’t do this. I can’t say my life was empty before you, but I know for a fact that you _changed_ something in me, and I can’t imagine how I lived before this. I look forward to seeing you every day, and you make me happy in ways I didn’t even know were possible. I love you, Bruce, so please, _let me help you._ I can’t lose you without a fight. _I won’t_.”

He reached down to smooth Bruce’s hair back away from his face, unable to squeeze any more words past the lump in his throat. The duke’s eyes had gone through a myriad of emotions as Clark spoke, but now they settled on a hesitant hope, as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. His grip was weak, but he tugged gently on Clark’s head, urging him downwards, and the reporter wasted no time granting him his request.

It was there, in the pouring rain, sitting in a growing puddle of Bruce’s blood in the middle of the London Bridge, that Clark finally got to kiss the man he’d been dreaming of for months.

It was far from what Clark imagined – infinitely more bittersweet – but he didn’t let that distract him from the glide of Bruce’s lips over his own, from the minute tightening of the duke’s grip on his cheek, or the quiet, satisfied noises escaping his mouth. Clark shuddered as he fought back another sob, pulling the other man’s body as close as he could when he finally drew back, resting his forehead against the noble’s and brushing their noses together.

“Please Bruce, is there _anyone_ in London I can take you to?” Clark pleaded, turning his imploring gaze on the duke’s increasingly glassy eyes.

Bruce took another deep, rattling breath, before finally relenting. “Alfred…my butler…he should be home right now…”

“Alright, Alexandra Court, right? Out in Kensington?” At the duke’s weary nod, Clark’s face hardened in determination, and he gathered the injured man in his arms, slowly standing and ignoring the screaming pain in his shoulder. “Bruce, I need you to stay awake, alright? Promise me you won’t fall asleep.”

“I promise…” he mumbled, head lolling to the side and resting on Clark’s chest.

“Here, how about I tell you a story? I’ll ask you later what it was about, so you’d best pay attention,” Clark warned him, setting off across the bridge at a brisk pace, heedless of the never-ceasing downpour.

“Mmhmm.”

“Okay, so, one time, Jimmy and I were sent to this woman’s house – she _insisted_ she was being haunted by the ghost of the neighbor’s cat…”


	20. The End of the Fight, the Beginning of the War

_17 November_

“Your grace, this behavior is most undignified.”

“I don’t give a damn about _dignified_ Alfred – I’m not an invalid, so _let me do some work_.”

“Of course, my mistake sir. I could have _sworn_ you were bedridden and filled with more stitches than one of Lady Vanaver’s gowns, but perhaps I’m simply hallucinating. I _am_ getting quite old, you know.”

“ _Alfred._ ”

“Bruce, he’s just worried about you. Calm down, or you’re going to pop a stitch.”

Reluctantly, Bruce leaned back into the mountain of pillows on his bed, grumbling about _traitors_ and _conspiring against me_. His sheets slid like silk over his torso, bare except for the swaths of gauze wrapped around his wounds and the sling trapping his right arm. He frowned irritably as his uncombed hair fell into his eyes and carefully reached up with his good arm to push the strands back. He watched as Clark smiled indulgently from his spot in the doorway and turned to the butler. “But, he _has_ been resting all day, Alfred, and he _promises_ he won’t get up, _right_?” he said, directing the last bit at the sulky duke. Bruce’s frown deepened, but he nodded in acquiescence.

“So, it wouldn’t hurt to let him have some papers to look over, would it?” Clark asked, giving the butler his most winning smile. Alfred’s face and posture remained unchanged, but he eventually sighed and made a vague gesture that Clark took as permission. With an exaggerated flourish, he pulled a file from behind his back and set in in Bruce’s lap, visibly smothering another grin as Bruce fell onto it like a starving tiger on an injured deer.

Bruce watched out of the corner of his eye as Clark moved over to where Alfred was standing at the foot of the bed and they leaned in close, talking in hushed tones before Alfred smiled and gave Clark a hearty pat on the shoulder. He made to leave the room, lingering by the door long enough to say, “I’ll bring your dinner up momentarily, sir. Mr. Kent, would you prefer to take your meal here, or in the dining room?”

“I’ll stay up here,” Clark shyly replied.

“Very well then. I shan’t be a moment.”

With that, Alfred was gone, closing the door in his wake. A silence fell on the room, but one that spoke more of comfort and familiarity than awkwardness. Clark rounded the bed and carefully sat on the edge near Bruce’s hip, prompting him to look up from his notes.

“How are you feeling?” Clark asked, face softening in concern.

“No worse than yesterday,” Bruce grumbled. “My stitches itch and I’m tired of having my arm in a sling.” To make his point, he let the files in his left hand drop back into his lap and reached up to scratch his injured shoulder, but his hand got no further than coming into contact with the gauze there before it was intercepted, pulled away and wrapped between two other big, warm ones.

“I know, but if you can hold out just a couple more weeks, we’ll at least be able to take the sling off, right?” Clark reminded him, rubbing circles into Bruce’s palm with his thumb.

At risk of sounding petulant, Bruce retorted, “But I want it off _now_. I’ve got too much work to do. I can’t afford to waste all this time – ”

“Recovering and making sure your lover doesn’t have to worry about you?” Clark finished, raising an eyebrow in warning.

Bruce clammed up guiltily, biting his tongue to stifle any kind of response. Clark smiled, at least, and released Bruce’s hand to tap the papers in his lap with one finger. “And _who_ convinced Alfred to let you do at least this much?”

“…It was you, of course,” Bruce muttered, carefully leaning forward and pressing his lips to Clark’s cheek. When he settled back onto the pillows, he was rewarded with a vivid blush and an unnecessary amount of throat-clearing. When Clark finally managed to ask, “SO, what exactly is in that file anyways?” Bruce allowed for the subject change and indulged him.

“Some of the last bits of the Ripper case. And likely the beginning of a new one.”

Clark’s brows furrowed. “How so?”

“Well, you told me that Zsasz alluded to someone helping him – giving him resources he wouldn’t have access to otherwise. It was something I’d considered during my investigation, but clearly didn’t put enough stock in. I might have been able to save Miss Kelly and prevent Zsasz from getting away if I had,” he groused, feeling a familiar melancholy creeping into his thoughts.

He flinched when two hands abruptly grabbed his face with enough force to make a clapping sound.

“None of that, Bruce.” Clark admonished. “You may not have saved her, but you saved me, right?”

Bruce swallowed back a wave of panic at the thought of _What if I hadn’t?_ and nodded.

“And it’s not like Zsasz caught a cab and boarded a train to the countryside. You _flung_ him into _the Thames_. That isn’t exactly the prime location for leisure swimming. Dozens of people _drown_ in that river every year after falling in, Bruce. Odds are much more likely that his body will wash up downstream in a few days,” Clark added, thumbs stroking over Bruce’s cheekbones. “It’s all fine, okay?”

Bruce took a deep breath and murmured, “Yes, it’s fine,” as he leaned into Clark’s touch. The reporter smiled with a tenderness that made something ache in Bruce’s chest before releasing him and returning his attention to the mess of papers.

“So, I assume this has something to do with Zsasz’s sponsor?” he surmised.

Bruce nodded, grateful for the redirection, and rifled through the papers. “Yes. The way he worded it made me consider that perhaps there’s a presence in this city that’s…well, the opposite of mine, I suppose. Someone who has eyes and ears across all of London, and uses their resources to _facilitate_ crime, instead of stop it.”

“What would they stand to gain by doing that though?” Clark asked, pushing up his glasses and frowning.

“Who knows? Favors, supplies, manpower –  the possibilities are limitless,” he recited distractedly, making an excited noise in the back of his throat as he found what he was looking for. He pulled a playing card out of the file and handed it to Clark, who accepted it easily enough, but his nose wrinkled in confusion.

“You’ve lost me Bruce,” he admitted.

“I’ve been sitting on that for ages. I found it on the body of another criminal I’d been tracking a few months before the Ripper showed up. He also had access to resources that seemed out of his league, but since he was dead, I didn’t look into it. I think I know what it means now. It’s his calling card – the sponsor’s, that is,” he explained.

Clark flipped the card over, inspecting the back, but didn’t seem to glean anything from it. He handed it back and asked, “So he, what, hands these out to promote business?”

“In a sense,” Bruce confirmed. “I think it’s how he gets his name out there. Drop it in the right place, and he’ll come to fix all your troubles like a demented fairy godmother.”

Clark hummed thoughtfully. “That…sounds like a problem.”

“And you have a gift for the understatement,” Bruce retorted, smiling when Clark pouted. “But yes, I think this is going to be my next big priority. I need to find out more about him, preferably without him knowing.”

Clark visibly hesitated, but with some encouragement from Bruce’s raised eyebrows, he finally confessed, “I’m just…worried about you. Zsasz was dangerous enough, but if this fellow is some kind of puppet master for all the crime in London, it’s going to be even worse.” He paused, gaze dropping to his lap, then added, “I just hate seeing you get hurt.”

Bruce tried his best to _not_ smile like some twitterpated fool, but he felt the scabbing cut on his jaw threaten to tear and suspected he was failing. He reached out and grasped Clark’s chin, tilting his head back up to meet his eyes.

“And I’m sorry you have to see it Clark, but I want this city to be a safe place for everyone – especially for you. I can’t very well let the love of my life wander through London looking for interviews when I know there’s a threat like this endangering him.”

Clark sputtered again, but he didn’t pull away, so Bruce let go of his face for a moment to slowly pull his glasses off, setting them on the night table with care. He looked deep into Clark’s eyes, mesmerized as ever by the vivid shade of blue that seemed more intense without the lens blocking them. He unthinkingly ran his tongue over his lips and watched as Clark’s pupils blew up and helplessly followed the movement. It was all the confirmation Bruce needed before leaning in and sealing their mouths together, tangling his good hand in Clark’s hair and pulling him closer.

Clark sighed as their lips met, planting his hands on either side of Bruce’s hips and tilting his head for a better angle. Bruce tugged lightly at his hair, earning a low groan that sent a shudder down his spine. He leaned further back, laying on the pillows once more, and dragged Clark along without breaking their kiss, forcing the reporter to prop his forearms on the pillows and cage Bruce in.

Clark reluctantly pulled away, murmuring against Bruce’s persistent lips, “Bruce, I don’t want to hurt you…”

“Then I’ll lay here, just like this,” he promised, voice dropping seductively. “I don’t have to move a muscle, and you can do whatever you want.”

“But…the file…”

Bruce growled and swept the papers off his lap, sending them fluttering into the air and landing in a haphazard pile on the floor.

“What if Alfred – ”

“For god’s sake, Clark, he’s been a butler longer than we’ve been alive, he knows a thing or two about _discretion_. Now _please_ , if you love me at all, Clark, just _touch me_.”

Thankfully, Bruce’s words did their job – Clark stopped talking and his gaze became more heated. His lips spread in a slow, salacious grin and he dropped his head to Bruce’s chest without looking away from his face.

“Very well, you grace. As you wish,” he purred, lips brushing against Bruce’s skin as he spoke. Bruce barely held back a moan as the reporter busied himself with running his lips and tongue over every patch of bare skin they could reach, guided by the hand tangled in his raven locks.

Forgotten, the rest of the papers slowly settled on the floor, shortly joined by various articles of Clark’s clothing. The playing card had landed somewhere near the door, almost sliding out into the hallway. It was face up, and had seen better days – it was no longer a pristine white, but foxed and stained with blood, even folded and creased in some places.

And as afternoon became evening, as the sun began to set and the shadows in the room elongated, the jester on the face of the card became distorted, his grin appearing less playful and more like a savage crimson wound stretching maliciously between his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Please let me know what you all thought! I worked really hard on this and I'm actually quite proud of it, but I'd like to know someone other than me enjoyed it. As always, you can hit me up on [Tumblr](http://dippkip.tumblr.com/), and another huge thanks to my artist [Kingy](http://grandaddykink.tumblr.com/) for the wonderful work!


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